


Another Go Round

by KassandraScarlett



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), Angst, Episode: s05e04 The End, Fluff, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Jealous Dean Winchester, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23284600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KassandraScarlett/pseuds/KassandraScarlett
Summary: Someone sends Dean back to 2009, with a mission: change the past, change the present, so the apocalypse never happens.Dean leaves behind a Croatoan-ridden world, only to stumble into the one person he's always loved more than anything else.Or:Zachariah doesn't send Dean to 2014. Instead, Chuck sends the Dean of the future to 2009.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Endverse Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 30
Kudos: 257





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, man, I swear this was only going to be 5K and it's... A monster now. Fuck. *headdesk*
> 
> Many thanks to AnotherWriterWhoWrites (womanoflettersinthebunker on Tumblr) for beta-ing this and helping throughout the writing process.

_We’re not stronger together, Sam._

_I was dead the second we said ‘hello’._

_I think we’re weaker._

_We’re a part of each other, Sam, two halves made whole. MFEO, literally._

_Baby, the people closest to you die._

_I think we should stay away from each other._

_I'll just bring you back each time._

_Pick a hemisphere._

_You’re my true vessel, Sam._

_Bye, Sam._

The curtains were drawn tightly, not a sliver of sunlight able to enter the room, leaving it in a dark, dreamy gloom. Yet, the knife gleamed ominously. The hands of the man who held it were graceful, capable, with long fingers that spoke of gentle strength. But right now they were clenched, in fear and anger and grief.

Sam Winchester looked at his reflection and tried to pretend he didn’t see a shadow of the Devil in his eyes.

He tried to think of a reason to live, but couldn’t find any. His brother wanted nothing to do with him. Almost everyone else he’d ever loved was dead. He had set the world on the path to destruction.

There was nothing left. With a last hateful glare to himself, he brought the blade up to his throat.


	2. Chapter 2

_It was an annual thing now. Every year, on May 13th, they’d gather around for a drink, toasting everyone they’d lost, reminiscing about the pre-apocalypse days and, inevitably, talking about Sam._

_It was the only time Dean allowed himself to actually think about the little brother he’d failed, loved and damned, betrayed and been betrayed by. He never cried, not with an audience, but he talked. Oh, did he talk, while Chuck, Cas and Bobby listened. Sometimes, they shared their memories too._

_Tonight, the mood was more maudlin than it had been the previous years. Maybe because they’d finally found the Colt, so the day was soon approaching when they’d kill the Devil. When they’d kill Sam, though no one really knew for sure if Sam wasn’t already dead. Or maybe it was the fact that today was exactly five years to the day Sam had said the word that put the world in the hands of the Devil._

_“Ya know, I never tol' him the truth… ‘bout why I was so mad,” Dean mumbled. “I mean, I didn’t tell ‘im the tru' ‘bout few other things too, but tha' one… He thought I was ma' ‘bout the demon blood. An' I was, a lil' bit, don’t ge' me wrong.” His words slurred badly and he took another swig from the bottle in his hand. “But I was more upse' ‘bout the demon chick. Ruby!” He spat her name like a curse and nobody around him flinched. “Hated her. Hated tha' he trusted her, more than me. Hated tha' she was wha' he wanted, that she got to… Maybe if I’d jus'… If I’d been… Jus'… hated her.” Another large swallow. “He thought I hated him. Pro'ly went to Luci thinkin' tha’.”_

_“I’m sure he knew the truth, Dean,” Bobby mumbled into his glass. “I’m sure he knew.”_

_Cas hummed in agreement, eyes unfocused but sad._

_Chuck remained quiet, picking at a loose strand at the cuff of his jeans. As drunk as they were, nobody noticed the intent stare he had directed at Dean._

_Dean took a third swallow. He didn’t seem to have heard Bobby’s words. “Jus' wish I could tell ‘im the truth. ‘Bout that, at least, if nothin' else.”_

* * *

The bright light subsided and he stumbled, ground swaying under his feet. Blindly grabbing the nearest solid surface, Dean steadied himself, dimly realizing that he was sober. That was weird. He frowned. He was pretty sure he’d been drinking with the other guys. And then Cas had said… what he’d said. And Dean, unable to stay in the same room as the fallen angel, had left the cabin to scream up at the heavens. And then…

_Why couldn’t he remember?_

He looked around. Realization hit him slowly and his pulse quickened with adrenaline as he took in the working streetlights, dim in the light of the rising sun. The well-kept cars. The unbroken roads. The inhabited motel rooms.

He was in the past.

A memory filtered through his mind, a half-remembered voice speaking unforgettable words: _One chance, Dean, just one chance to change things how you see fit. You've got two days. Make it count._

He was standing right in front of room 504, at a distance of just a few yards. A jog away. And it suddenly didn’t matter _who’d_ sent him here, or _why_ they’d seen fit to answer his prayers after so long, or _when_ exactly he was, or even _if_ this was real or just a dream. All of Dean’s battle-worn instincts and rationality, honed razor-sharp after a lifetime of hunting and an Apocalypse, failed him. The only thing that mattered in that moment was that he was _here_ and it was obviously _before_ Lucifer and Michael’s prize fight and he just _knew_ who was behind that door.

Dean didn’t think, but sprinted to the door. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t second-guess, didn’t even knock. He just placed a well-aimed kick at the knob, forcing it open, and strode in.

There was a mirror on the opposite wall and a man with a knife in front of the mirror. Hazel eyes met green in the dirty, cracked reflection and widened for a fraction of a second. But the fingers that were wrapped around the handle of the blade had already moved. The slick sound of skin being sliced open broke through the early morning serenity. And Sam crumpled to the ground like a marionette with cut strings.

For a few seconds, Dean couldn’t move.

The door mercifully swung close on its own. He didn’t give it much attention. His vision had narrowed down to the body lying on the floor, throat cut open, the blood looking more black than red in the darkness.

Moving slowly, shocked into incomprehension, Dean fell to his knees near Sam. _This isn't supposed to happen_ , he thought dimly. Sam wasn’t supposed to… To do _this_. Dean would have remembered. Hell, he would have had nightmares about it. So _what was this_?

Dean reached out with shaking fingers to touch Sam’s cheek. The skin was warm and his eyes were frozen in the shock that had been in them upon seeing Dean. He thumbed them close, moving on auto-pilot, but unable to meet the accusation he knew wasn’t really there.

_Maybe it is a nightmare_ , he thought desperately, _hoped_ for it really, because that would be better than reality. That had to be it. Because otherwise his past self would be in this motel room too, would have seen the signs, would have kept an eye on his little brother to make sure this didn’t happen. There was no version of Dean that could have misread Sam so badly, or left him alone long enough for him to… To kill himself. Except…

_No. No, oh god, no_. Dean pried the silver dagger from unmoving fingers, replacing it with his own clammy hand. _Please, no_ , he begged silently, clasping his other hand over Sam’s as well, as if trying to keep it warm. _Don’t let this be… It can’t have…_

Dean closed his eyes tightly, suddenly hating himself more than he already did. Because there _was_ a version of him that had left Sam alone, had abandoned him when he’d needed him the most. And judging by the build of Sam’s ~~corpse~~ body, the timing was right.

_But it doesn’t make sense_ , his mind insisted to him. _This can’t be real._

And his heart screamed right back: _How does it matter?!_

Because for the second time in his life, Dean had been seconds too late to save his brother from death.

With his eyes closed and head bowed, he missed the hellish miracle that was slowly starting to work, vanishing the blood away and stitching the torn skin back up. The sharp intake of breath was drowned in the litany of his loathing thoughts. But the warmth growing in his hands was unmistakable and when something squeezed his fingers, Dean’s eyes snapped open, only to find Sam staring back at him.

“Dean,” he breathed out, gaze confused but hopeful.

Dean gaped. “Sammy,” he said numbly. He couldn’t… He didn’t understand… Sam’s wound was healed. Even the blood on his shirt and skin had disappeared, leaving only a pearly scar that curved above the neck of his soft grey tee.

Sam began to sit up, though he thankfully didn’t free his hand from Dean’s grip. “What… Look, I can explain what happened, okay?” He said, placating. “Don’t be mad, please, just… What are you doing here? How’d you get here so fast?”

Dean continued to stare. Some of Sam’s words were making sense, like _I can explain_. Obviously, he had some kind of explanation for his revival and, judging from his tone, it was something he didn’t think Dean would be happy to hear. And past Dean probably wouldn’t. But _he_ didn’t care. Because Sam was _okay_. He was _alive_. And best of all, he was _Sam_.

“Sammy,” he repeated, soft and fervent.

“Dean? Are you okay?” Sam was peering at him in concern. But as his sharp eyes tracked over his form, the concern morphed into something else.

Dean realized too late that Sam had spotted the obvious signs of aging on him and in the space of a few seconds, the knife was knocked out of his hand as a sharp pain bloomed across his cheekbone. He’d have blamed his slow reaction on his astonished happiness at Sam’s presence, but the next blow rendered him unconscious before he could do so.


	3. Chapter 3

_“Did'ya know I dream ‘bout him?” Dean questioned. At some point, he’d laid down on the floor, empty bottle abandoned beside him, and stared up at the patched ceiling. “I dream ‘bout him a lot. Tha's not… Ain’t normal. Tell me tha's normal.”_

_“It’s normal,” Chuck assured. How he was still coherent after drinking an entire bottle of whiskey was anybody’s guess. Anybody’s guess would be wrong, but still._

_“It’s not normal,” Cas argued, eyes closed in a dreamy way._

_“Wha' d'ya dream ‘bout? Gonna keep us in suspense?” Bobby demanded, surly yet still somehow fatherly._

_Dean lay silent for a long time. “Jus' him,” he mumbled. “Nothin' but him. S'always jus' him.” His voice cracked at the last words. “Hate him sometimes. Gone fo' five years and still messin' wi' my head. Always was a stubborn son of a bitch.” There was the faintest Mid-west accent in his words now. “Wish I cou' hate ‘im. Be easier. Dad a'ways di’ say I love ‘im too much._

* * *

When he came to, Dean didn’t want to open his eyes. He’d been having an amazing dream of Sam waking up beside him and taking his hand, smiling fondly at him and kissing him gently as a _good morning_. Except he wasn’t quite sure if it really had been a dream- one of the many that his subconscious liked to torture him with and _definitely_ better than the one where Sam lay on the floor with a slit throat- or some sort of alcohol-induced hallucination. He just knew he didn’t want to deal with it not being real. He already knew it wasn’t a memory and _that_ was regretful enough. He didn’t need-

_Wait_. His hands were tied. At waist level. Not shackled. And the binding was very efficient too; his wrists were deliberately twisted in opposite directions, making it impossible to get any wiggle room.

“I know you’re awake.”

Dean froze. That voice… That was not a dream. It was too crisp to be a memory. And he was too clear-headed to be hallucinating.

But it shouldn’t be possible. Unless he really had time-travelled. But how?

“If you’re done cataloging your situation, could you open your eyes, please?”

Dean hadn’t been cataloguing anything, not with the rug pulled out from under his feet like this, but he did so now and he could tell he’d been searched and relieved of all his weapons and anything that could have served as a pick. And his hands were tied in front of him, which meant he couldn’t even try to work the knots without his captor watching.

His captor… Who was…

Dean opened his eyes and felt his heart stop. Sam was across from him, straddling a chair at the foot of the bed, gun in one hand and pointed casually at him. Dean didn’t notice any of _that_. He noticed the dark circles, indicative of a hunter's four-hour sleep cycle, and the irritation twisting his pillowed lips. He saw the twitch in Sam’s free thumb, a nervous tick he hid by keeping it out of immediate sight. He saw the expressiveness of the blue-green-amber eyes that currently showed suspicion, the _life_ in his features. All the things that Lucifer had replaced with a blank mask that only held righteous anger or contemptuous amusement. All the things that Dean knew he could- and would- spend eternity just staring at.

“Sammy,” he said, dumbly.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “We’ve established that,” he agreed. “Who and what are you? You're not a demon or a shifter, I already checked; silver, holy water and the anti-possession tattoo. Angels can't find me, thanks to Cas, but I checked for that too. You’re not a ghoul, because I spoke to Dean last night, I know he’s alive. But you’re wearing the amulet, which Dean doesn’t even have on him at the moment. So, again, what are you?”

This time, Dean forced himself to pay attention to Sam’s words. It was easy- he’d spent five years without that voice, he was damn well going to listen now. Sam could read from a phone book and he would listen. He just needed a second to stop thinking about Sam pulling the neck of his Henley aside and skimming his fingertips along the edges of his tattoo.

“Sammy,” he tried again. He cleared his throat, struggling to drag his body to a sitting position. “It’s me. It’s Dean. Really. Just not…” There was no easy way to put it. “I’m from the future.”

To no surprise, Sam rolled his eyes and huffed in response. “Be serious.”

Dean shook his head slowly, though he didn't look away, eagerly reacquainting himself with dearly missed features. “Sammy, I know I told you about Cas zapping me back to the 70’s to before mom and dad got married.”

“How did you get here then?” He asked. “Cas? Zachariah?”

“I don’t know, Sammy,” Dean replied, with a light shrug. “Last I remember, I was getting drunk. Then I was standing in the parking lot outside, stone-cold sober.”

Sam licked his lips, but otherwise remained poker-faced. Or… Oh god, had Dean really forgotten how to read his expressions? The thought hurt, a dull ache in his chest.

“I’m assuming you’ve called me, already, Sammy? Past me, I mean?” He asked, trying to keep the conversation going. He knew he was being a little overkill with the way he refused to look anywhere but at Sam. But his little brother either hadn’t noticed or didn’t think it important to bring to attention. “What’s the date anyways, exactly? And how long have I been out for?” He felt well-rested, even though being knocked out usually left him more tired. He must have been really exhausted.

“It’s October 2nd, 2009. You were out for seven hours, it’s noon now. You must have really needed the sleep. And no,” Sam sighed. “I figured I’d make sure of what’s going on before I call Dean.” He picked up his phone from the table behind him, held it in his hand for a minute. “If you’re really… Dean,” he said slowly. “Then prove it. Tell me something only my brother and I would know.”

That was easy. Almost too easy and yet, completely foolproof. There were so many little secrets the brothers shared that even Dad or Bobby hadn’t known about. Secrets that he kept even during the last five years. Dean just had to pick his favorite one.

“Fourth of July, 1996. We snuck out at night when dad fell asleep after a long hunt, to set off fireworks in that abandoned field on the outskirts of town.” His voice was soft and he watched intently as Sam’s eyes lowered, like he was remembering the moment too. “You gave me a hug,” he went on. “And that was the last time that happened for a long while.” For Dean, the memory of Sam’s wide grin and the warmth of his embrace, so few in number as he grew too old to cling to his big brother, was seared into his mind. Of course, there was another memory he could have picked, but that would have just reopened old wounds.

“Okay,” Sam said quietly. He was watching Dean again. There was something curious in his face, something wary. “Okay. I should call Dean now. The current one, I mean.”

Dean watched as Sam exhaled loudly, as if bracing himself as the phone rang. In his peripheral vision, he knew that his 1911 and the demon blade were on the bedside table, within reach. He had to hand it to Sam; it was a clear test to see if Dean would try to get to the weapons and attack him or not. It was also reckless.

“Dean?” Sam asked, eyes downcast, as his call was answered. “We’ve got a situation. You might want to be here for it.” There was a short pause and Sam flinched.

Dean cursed himself silently.

He remembered the last conversation they’d had. Remembered all too well how Sam had begged him not to cut him out, to take him back. _I’m so sorry, Sammy_ , he thought morosely.

“No, I didn’t do anything,” Sam defended himself. “But there’s a you from the future and he’s tied up on my bed. And, yes, I did the tests. He really is you.” His tone was growing more and more snappish. “Why, because you think I can’t take you without demon blood?” He demanded. Then he took a deep breath, reigning all his anger back in, leaving nothing but bone-deep sadness. “Look, just get here, please… Okay, thank you.” Sam practically threw the phone away as soon as he could.

He looked at Dean, shoulders set defiantly, as if waiting for judgement.

Dean resisted the urge to fidget. There was so much he wanted to say, so many things to apologize for. He might as well start now. “I’m sorry I was such a jerk to you, Sammy,” he offered, tentatively. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Sam blinked, completely caught off-guard. “It’s okay,” he assured with a nervous huff of laughter. “I mean… I did kick-start the Apocalypse.”

Dean shook his head. “You made a mistake,” he corrected softly. “I’m not saying you didn’t, or that it didn’t hurt me like a bitch. But I made mistakes too. And the way I treated you, Sammy… I treated you like a criminal. That was a really dick move on my part. And believe me, I’d love to beat some sense into his ass as soon as I can.”

Sam looked at him like he didn’t understand him. It pained Dean. “Don’t hurt him,” he mumbled, like he didn’t know what else to say. “I know he’s technically _you_ , but, if being away from me is what keeps him safe, because then he doesn’t have to keep an eye on me all the time, then he can be angry at me for as long as he needs to. So, please… Just don’t hurt him.”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. It would require explaining things he wasn’t really in the mood to discuss right now. “Okay, Sammy,” he promised softly. “I won’t touch him.”

He still looked sceptical, but let it pass. “Dean… Uh, I mean, you…” He clicked his tongue in frustration. “Current-you said Cas did some high-level mojo last night to escape Zachariah, so he’s drained right now. He said he’ll ask him to zap them both here when he wakes. And you’ll probably want to wait till they get here so you don’t have to tell your story twice. So…” He shrugged awkwardly, getting up and moving to the bed. “Guess I’ll untie you now.”

“Bet that’s not what you say to the girls.” Dean didn’t mean to say that, really, but something about being with Sam brought out his long-dead teasing humor. And when Sam blushed, he internally cheered. _Still got it_ , he thought to himself. Oh, if the guys at Camp Chitaqua could see him now.

“Shut up,” Sam muttered and Dean grinned. It felt unfamiliar. It felt amazing.

But as Sam sat next to him on the bed, bending slightly to tug at the knots looping around his hands, Dean felt his smile fade. Up close, Sam was still beautiful and Dean felt sure that if he stopped blinking long enough, he could count each of Sam’s eyelashes and catalogue all the colors of his eyes. But the exhaustion shadowing his face and the scar on his neck mocked him, reminding him of his mistakes.

The ropes fell away. Dean began to rotate his wrists to work out the stiffness, but Sam grabbed them instead, long fingers gently rubbing circles into the tendons. It was instinctive, something they’d always done for each other when one of them had recently been tied up, but it made Dean freeze up again, because apart from sex, which was few and far in between, nobody had touched him with such gentleness for years. Because the only person who ever had in the first place was Sam and he was gone.

Right now, Sam didn’t meet his eyes at first, but he must have felt the stare, because he swallowed visibly, before looking up through his lashes.

“What?” He asked, stopping his ministrations. “Is this okay?”

It was the defensiveness and uncertainty still in his voice that did it.

“Come here,” Dean muttered in a rushed whisper and tugged and Sam fell into him, too surprised to fight the pull. Dean wrapped his arms around his shoulders, drawing him in as close as he could, as if he could hide Sam inside himself somehow.

Sam was stiff against him, holding himself in a way that suggested he was waiting to be shoved off. “Guess you do forgive me in the future, huh?” He asked, trying to play off his nervousness.

But the hope there was crystal clear and it made Dean hold him tighter. “I forgave you a long time ago, Sammy,” he admitted. _It was just already too late to mean anything_ , he didn’t say.

But the admission worked. Sam relaxed and suddenly, he was clutching back just as tightly, fingers digging into his waist, just a little brother seeking love and affection. Dean found himself cataloging all the things he’d forgotten about Sam’s body. His hands ran all over him; the muscles in his arms and upper back, the dip of his waist and the cut of his hips, the curve of his spine, the pulse at his throat-

Dean stopped. Folding back the collar of Sam’s plaid, his finger gingerly traced the new scar and he swallowed back bile.

“What happened, Sammy?” He asked in a hushed whisper. “Why would you do that?”

Sam pulled away slowly, looking at him warily. “I… Haven’t told you in the future?”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could tell him, he realized. He could tell Sam about the Apocalypse, that Sam himself would be the one to take the final step towards the end of the world in eight months. He could tell him and maybe that would prevent it from ever happening. He could tell him and then watch the dying light in Sam’s eyes fade completely when he realizes what he will do. He could tell him and listen to him talk about how Dean should have killed him long ago, never mind how Dean’s heart was too weak to take that.

“No, you never told me anything about this, Sammy,” he said quietly. “I never even saw the scar.” It was, in all technicality, still the truth, if highly edited.

Sam looked down, at where his arms were still around Dean’s waist. “You remember I told you about how I was Lucifer’s vessel?” He mumbled. “That he visited my dreams?”

He waited for Dean, who remembered the fear in Sam’s voice all too well, to nod.

“Well, I told him that I would rather kill myself than say ‘ _yes_ ' to him,” Sam went on in a soft voice. “And he said that he would just bring me back. So…”

“You decided to try it,” Dean finished for him. Horror swirled up in him, giving him tunnel vision as he glared at the scar. It looked like a brand on Sam’s skin; Lucifer staking his claim. It made his blood boil. Without thinking, he bent forward, placing his mouth over the thin mark. It was a purely possessive move and they both knew it.

Sam froze at the touch and Dean regretted his impulsiveness for exactly one second. Then he decided he didn't care how inappropriate it seemed. It was just him and Sam, after all. And he and Sam had always bordered on the line of impropriety in the way there were with each other. “Is this because of what I said to you back then? Last night? When I told you to stay away?” He growled into the soft skin.

Sam actually shivered, his fingers almost clawing at Dean. “Dean, what are you doing?” He asked in a hushed whisper.

Dean skimmed his lips over the length of the scar, resisting the urge to taste. “Answer the question, Sammy,” he demanded hotly, moving up to nose along Sam’s jaw.

“N-no-”

“Don’t lie to me,” Dean hissed into his ear. He was aware that he was behaving erratically. But the idea that he could have prevented this, could have kept Sam safe, if he just hadn’t been so stupid and let his ego and jealousy get in the way- it made him want to gouge his own eyes out.

Sam shuddered, head falling onto Dean’s shoulder. “Don’t tell him,” he said, voice quiet and pleading. “Please, don’t tell him. He’s so angry at me right now, angrier than he’s ever been. If he finds out how weak I am, he’ll only hate me more. Please.”

Dean gave up, momentarily, and buried his nose in Sam’s neck. Pulling him impossibly closer, he closed his eyes and breathed him in.

They held each other like that for God knew how long and neither heard the tentative knock on the door.


	4. Chapter 4

_Sam walked away. He didn’t look back. And Dean didn't look away. It killed him to watch, but he stayed on the bench and never took his eyes off his little brother as Sam pulled his duffel out of the car. When he trailed his hand over the lid of Baby’s trunk, it would have made Dean smile under any other circumstances. But the light touch was a farewell to their home and it was still more consideration than he had just given Dean. It was silly to be jealous of a car, especially his own, but Dean wanted Sam to touch_ him _like that, wanted that hand cradling his face, cupping the side of his neck, or just entwined with his own hand. He wanted Sam next to him, trusting him, letting Dean trust him. He wanted… He just wanted._

_But Sam didn’t. Sam thought they needed time apart. Sam thought it would be best for them to separate. Sam needed space._

_Okay then. Dean would give him space._

_“Hey, everything okay?” Jo asked, sliding in next to him. “Where did Sam go with the trucker?”_

_Dean shrugged. “He said he wants a break,” he answered vaguely._

_Jo looked unimpressed. “What, in the middle of the Apocalypse?”_

_He swallowed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jo open her mouth to say something more. But then she was frowning softly, considering him with a tilted head. “Hey,” she said softly, nudging him. “It’s just a small break. He’ll come back.”_

_Dean nodded. He didn’t know if he could deal with Sam being back either. There were too many restless ghosts between them: the lies, the blood, the fights… Ruby. And these weren’t the type of ghosts that could be salted and burned away._

* * *

After Sam ended the call, Dean waited for Cas to wake up. As he waited, he tried to wrap his mind around the mildly bizarre idea that his future self had dropped in for a visit.

Mild, because after having Back To The Future-d himself once, it wasn’t surprising to see someone else do it. Even if that someone else was a Dean Winchester from the future.

Of course, the only other thing he had to think about was Sam. What was he like in the future? Were they still separated or back with each other? What exactly was he doing with future-him at this moment? Were they glaring at each other from opposite ends of the room? Were they tentatively making amends?

The thought rankled, if he was being honest. Sure, their visitor was a version of him, but it wasn’t _really_ him. Not yet anyway. The idea of future-him consoling Sam, on _his_ behalf no less, was more than a little unsettling. What if he let slip some nonsense about how much Dean missed his little brother? How hurt he’d felt as he’d watched Sam walk away with the words, “ _Maybe it’s best if we just go our separate ways,”_ and how much Dean regretted letting him go?

Okay, that was it. Dean couldn’t take any more of the suspense. Already packed and ready, he shook Cas awake. “Wake up, buddy,” he said loudly. “We got a situation.”

Cas frowned a bit as he sat up slowly, blinking hard. Dean would deny ever thinking that it was a little adorable. “What is the situation?” He asked.

“There is a me from the future camping out in Sam’s motel room,” Dean told him, rattling off the address Sam had texted him. “Get fresh. Then meet me in the car. You need to zap all three of us there.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want me to ' _zap_ ’ you anywhere,” Cas reminded. “And three?”

“Yeah, well, this is a zapping situation. And yes, three: you, me and Baby.” Man, it felt weird saying that to anyone except Sam. “Let’s go.”

Exactly five minutes later, the Impala was in the parking lot of Sleep Eezy Motel.

Dean didn’t let himself feel any nausea. He jumped out and half-jogged to the door of Sam’s room. For a split second, he hesitated. Seeing his parents when they were young and dating had been weird enough. Seeing himself? Dean didn’t quite want to know what he would be like. And Sam? He’d been pretty upset on the phone. Though, admittedly, Dean had been a bit of a jerk to suggest that Sam couldn’t take him without demon blood. Supernatural enhancements aside, the brothers were evenly matched. They knew each other too well to beat or be beaten.

With a deep breath, Cas a steady presence behind him, he knocked lightly on the door. A minute passed. No answer.

Dean raised his hand to knock again, but his eyes caught the slightly bent-out-of-shape doorknob. This door had been kicked open. Recently, if it hadn’t been fixed yet.

_Sammy_.

Suddenly afraid that his brother might be in trouble, Dean drew his Colt and shoved the door open in one smooth movement, stepping inside with the gun raised.

For a split second, all he saw was Sam and a stranger entwined on the bed in a seemingly uncomfortable position, yet locked together in a way that suggested neither wanted to let go.

And in that moment, it registered in Dean’s brain as _danger_.

But in the next moment, the stranger had thrown a protective arm over Sam’s chest, grabbed a gun from the bedside table and pointed it at him.

Dean found his own face glaring at him.

Sam yelped, “No!” and Cas inhaled sharply.

But nothing happened. The two of them stared at each other, neither easing up on their weapons. Dean watched the expression on his doppelganger's face go from recognition to anger to hatred. It unsettled him as much as it felt familiar. It was like looking at a weird mirror.

“Sammy,” Dean spoke, shooting a quick glance at his brother. “You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sam sounded confused and wary. “We just talked ten minutes ago. Could you both put your guns down?” When neither of them gave a sign of having heard him, he sighed loudly. “Dean, put the gun down.”

To Dean’s eternal surprise, even though Sam’s words were directed to him, it was future-him who slowly lowered his arm, though he stayed tense. Sam actually looked just as shocked at having been heard, even more so when future-him’s free hand, which had been on Sam’s chest, moved down to rest on his knee instead. Dean lowered his own gun as well.

“Dean Winchester,” Cas murmured. He stepped towards the bed. “How far off are you?” He tilted his head in consideration and reached out to touch future-him’s forehead.

“Touch me and I’ll cut your arm off, I swear to god.” Future-Dean sounded cold, his voice lower and rougher, like Dad's, and there was no way the edge to his words was anything but rage. “And trust me, you wouldn’t be the first angel to lose a body part to me.

Cas stilled, backing away. “I don’t understand,” he murmured. “What have I done to earn your ire?”

Future-Dean cocked an eyebrow. “You know damn well,” he stated flatly.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Dean cut in. He didn’t like the look of pure hatred on future-him's face. And why did Cas suddenly look stricken with guilt? “Maybe just answer the question, Winchester.” It was the best way to tell the difference between themselves.

The glare was directed at him now. “You don’t tell me what to do, you little-”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Sam announced, standing from the bed. He didn’t notice the way Winchester’s hand twitched in protest at being dislodged from his knee, almost reaching out for him again. He didn’t notice how Winchester’s attention snapped back to him the second he opened his mouth.

Dean couldn't _not_ notice it.

“We're not gonna talk about this here,” Sam went on. “Cas, can you take all five of us to Bobby?”

Cas blinked. “The fifth of us being…”

“The car,” Sam reminded.

The angel looked about as close to amused as he could. All though it could have been exasperation. “Not all of us, no, I’m still drained. We’ll have to drive.”

“Okay, fun,” Sam muttered, but then he turned to Dean. “Unless…” He hesitated. “Do you want me to drive in a different car?” He asked quietly.

Dean felt a twinge of guilt in his chest. “No, ‘course not,” he grumbled. “Pack your ass up, come on. Baby's right outside.”

Sam was already packed and the four of them headed towards the car. Dean was uncomfortably aware of Winchester whispering something to Sam, who gave him a confused look but nodded supportively. It didn’t help that he was wearing one of Sam’s own plaids over the Henley, the length of it just a bit too much for him.

When they reached the car, Cas went to the backseat. Except Sam beat him to it. “I’ll sit in the back, Cas,” he hurriedly said.

Dean gaped at him. Sam hated sitting in the backseat, after having been made to sit there for eighteen years of life. “Why the hell?” He demanded.

Sam shrugged. “De said he might kill Cas if they sit together,” he explained, throwing an apologetic look to the angel.

“ _De_?” Dean repeated faintly. He hadn’t heard that nickname in over a decade, not since Sam turned 15. Hearing it now made him feel a little sick, because somehow, he knew it wasn't really for him.

Sam nodded towards Winchester. “We can’t call you both the same thing,” he reasoned. “And I'm not calling him _Winchester_.” He didn't look even slightly sheepish, completely unaware of the sudden resentment Dean felt rising within him. If that wasn’t enough, Winchester was looking at him with the barest hint of smugness. And suddenly, Dean wanted this man far, _far_ away from Sam.

“Well, he can ride up front with me, then,” he all but growled.

Sam’s eyes widened at his tone. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he hedged.

“Why not?”

“Because…” Sam trailed off, biting his lips. “Because you look like _you_ want to kill _him_.” _And I think you actually might_ , went unsaid.

Dean scoffed. It was true, but still. “What, as if _he_ doesn’t want to kill _me_?” He pointed out. “He looks like…” _Like he wants to try out Alistair's lessons._

Sam shook his head. “De isn’t gonna hurt you,” he said softly.

“Yeah?” Dean was incredulous. “What makes you sure?”

Sam looked at Winchester, features soft and awed. “Because he promised he wouldn’t.”

Dean remembered the way Winchester had lowered his gun at Sam’s words, despite looking ready to blow someone’s head off. As they sat in the car and Dean pulled out of the parking lot, he watched the rear view mirror, watched how Winchester was sitting as close to Sam as physically possible, leaving the rest of the generously spacious backseat empty. In the motel room, he hadn’t seemed willing to look away from Sam’s face. Now, he’d turned his attention to Sam’s hand, holding it in his own grip, lightly running a finger over the rough knuckles, the bony wrist, the freakishly long fingers. There wasn’t a hint of tension in his frame, which was really unlike Dean, who never felt fully relaxed unless he and Sammy were alone in the car, or with Bobby at his place. But Winchester looked like nothing in the world was stressful enough to distract him from fucking _caressing_ Sam’s hands.

Dean hated it, he decided. He hated the way Winchester looked at Sam, like he was the only thing worth looking at, like he was the only light in a dark world, like the sight of Sam hurt him and brought him back to life all at once. Dean hated it… Because it was nauseatingly familiar. Because he remembered the times he’d looked at Sam that same way and it meant nothing good right now.

And Dean also _really_ hated the way Sam was so comfortable with it, as if this was something he wanted, as if he enjoyed the foreign attention from Winchester, a man who, for all intents and purposes, Sam had just met half an hour ago. Technically.

Then Sam looked away from Winchester, meeting Dean’s eyes in the rear view mirror. Guilt and sadness flashed through them and Dean had to look away, lest his own eyes give away too much.


	5. Chapter 5

_“Ya know, there are things I’dda asked ‘im,” Dean mused. The second bottle of the night was in his hand, forgotten in favor of just talking. “So many things.”_

_“Like what?” Chuck asked, gently. He had his legs drawn up, arms hooked around his knees as he watched Dean with fascination._

_Dean waved his hand in a vague manner. “Jus’… Stuff. Li' tha' time he woke from a nightmare n' crawled into my bed. Wrapped ‘round me like a friggin octopus, then woke up early next mornin’ n' pretended it didn’t happen. N' what exactly he meant by Ruby reminding ‘im of me? Cuz he fucked ‘er. Wassat supposed to mean, huh, Sammy?” He growled half-heartedly, staring up at the ceiling. “I wanna ask ‘im if ‘e still wants it.”_

_“Wants what?” Bobby questioned. He was the only one still coherent, apart from Chuck, but he didn’t count._

_Dean sniffed. “Jus' somethin' ‘e asked me for, lil' ‘fore Stanford. I didn' say yes. ‘S too scared. Of Dad. Of ‘im not meanin' it, or changin' ‘is mind. Told ‘im ‘e was jus' confused, heck I thought that he was jus' confused. Maybe I was wrong. N' ‘e was still jus' a kid. I was s'pposed to protect ‘im, not… Corrupt ‘im or some shit.”_

_Bobby grunted. Coherent or not, he was drunk, enough that his brain didn’t quite catch up with the exact implications of what Dean was saying. Not that it would have bothered him much if he did. Bobby Singer knew almost everything about his boys, even the things they tried to hide or weren’t aware of themselves. He loved them despite it all. “Don’t know what you’re blabbering on about, boy. But I got questions too. Mainly, how the hell'd he get outta the panic room that night?”_

_There was a momentary silence, in which Cas shook himself slightly. “It was me,” he whispered._

* * *

They reached by nightfall.

Bobby, understandably, handed Dean a silver knife as soon as they walked in. And even though Dean had expected that and had readily made a small cut across his forearm, right above the one made by Sam, he hadn’t expected the splash of holy water to his face the second he looked up.

Dean honestly hated whenever that happened- and it happened a lot- and he was just about to ready to growl, but Sam, standing right next to him with their shoulders brushing, let out a near silent huff of laughter, probably at the way he was scowling.

“It’s only water,” Sam murmured. “Don't be such a bitch about it.” His face went blank in the next second, like he wasn’t confident of how the camaraderie might be received.

Dean deliberately deepened his frown, wiping the water off with his sleeve. “You’re the bitch, Sammy,” he grumbled, even though it sounded fonder than he knew it should.

But Sam brightened up visibly, dimples peeking out shyly. “Jerk,” he shot back, lips turned up at the corner.

Dean grinned up at him, still feeling the odd stretch of face muscles he hadn’t used in a while. He was also peripherally aware of his past self's tightly pursed mouth and took a grim sort of satisfaction in that.

“Well, if that ain’t proof enough,” Bobby drawled, looking up between him and Sam.

Dean turned to him. “Hey, Bobby,” he greeted with a nod.

“I got one question for ya, boy.” Bobby held up a threatening finger. “How far off from the future are ya? And how screwed are we still?”

“Five,” he answered promptly. “And…” He forcefully kept his gaze from turning to the man at his side, knowing his little brother would spot something in his eyes. “We’re still pretty screwed.” That was an understatement. “But we do get you back on your feet.”

A little bit of the tension in the room was gone.

“Dean,” Cas said. The somber tone left no doubt who he was talking to. “Please, allow me to check you. I may be able to figure out who, or what, sent you here.”

Dean couldn’t stop himself from glaring. Cas was a good friend, drugs and orgies notwithstanding, and Dean loved him like family. But right now, every inch of him wanted to throttle the angel for what he’d done, wanted to punish him. But…

“Okay,” he said through grit teeth. He couldn’t move just yet though. His fingers twitched against Sam’s, itching to grab his hand and hold it the way he had the whole car ride over. To his surprise, Sam’s hand moved instead and warmth spread over Dean wrists as calloused fingertips brushed against his pulse.

Emboldened, taking comfort in Sam’s plaid over his shoulders, Dean strode forward, taking a seat.

Cas stood behind him. “Try to relax,” he intoned and Dean barely got to roll his eyes before the angel had placed his hands on either side of Dean’s head.

Intense pain shot through his head. Dean screwed his eyes shut against it, but white-hot sears of light flashed like shooting stars across the back of his eyelids and he knew he was gasping, struggling to draw in breath, but _Sammy_ was _yelling_ and calling his name and he sounded so _worried_ and Dean _couldn’t get to him…_

It was over in five seconds flat.

Dean was on the ground, he realized, curled into himself and clutching his head. He had no idea how he'd gotten there, but as he unfurled himself slowly, he became aware of one large hand protecting his head from the wooden floor and a thumb rubbing soothing circles into his knee.

“-you mean by that?” Sam was demanding furiously. “How can you not know?”

“Sammy?” Dean called hoarsely. He tried to sit up, immediately missing the hand at the back of his head, though the one on his knee stayed. “What happened?” He asked, blinking to clear the black spots from his vision.

Sam’s face came into view, concerned puppy eyes colored warm hazel in the artificial lights. “You collapsed,” he explained, steadying him with a hold on his shoulder. “Cas was just saying he doesn’t know why.” He said the last part with an added glare to Cas.

Watching Sammy get riled up on his behalf never got old, Dean thought. It was just another one of those things he never thought he’d get to have again.

“Alright, let him up, Sam,” his past self groused. “He’s not a friggin’ baby.”

Yeah, his past self had spotted Sam’s protectiveness too. And he didn’t like it. He was gonna hate Dean’s protectiveness even more then.

“I’m okay,” he promised.

Sam looked unsure, but Dean smiled as comfortingly as he could, and easily let Sam help him to his feet.

“So, what’s the verdict?” He asked, sitting down again.

Cas looked shell shocked, staring at Dean in a mix of horror and fascination. “It was… Well, it was not an angel.” Everyone waited for him to continue and he swallowed, a strangely human gesture on a still-angelic angel. “It was power like I haven’t felt before. Power that I doubt most angels ever have.”

Bobby leaned forward on his wheelchair. “What does that mean?” He asked, eyes narrowed. “We talkin’ about a completely new player?”

There was a collective intake of breath and Cas nodded slowly. “It would seem so. But whoever it is, seems to have deliberately erased an insignificant portion of your memory. Though not completely; they made it so you would be aware of the gap.”

“Why would someone send any version of me into the past? Or future, for that matter?” The sarcasm was thick.

Cas peered at Dean closely, Jimmy Novak’s blue eyes alight with sudden fervor. “What do you remember? Even the smallest bit?”

Dean frowned. “I was drunk. I left my cabin, went outside. Yelled some crap to the skies. Then it’s blank, like a white-out. Next thing I know, I’m standing in the parking lot of that motel.”

“And you don’t remember a single thing from that blankness?” His past self questioned.

Dean tried to think. A hazy memory of a voice surfaced. “There was someone with me,” he recalled. “They told me that they were giving me one chance to change things however I want. And that I had two days to do it.” He abruptly realized he was down to only one day now and his heart sank.

“Why would somebody want you to change the past?” Bobby asked. “How bad is the future?”

Dean gulped. He had to tell them the truth. Even if it was an edited version of it.

“Lucifer and Michael got fed up waiting for us,” he said, the half-lie escaping his mouth like smoke through fingers. “They had their battle. Lucifer won.” He swallowed, tongue dry and heavy as he remembered the lightning that had seemed like it would tear apart the sky, Grace-blue and Hellfire-red. There had been no rain of blood or holy battle; just angels and demons and monsters and humans all intent on murder, as two brothers punished each other for two-fold betrayal.

“Lucifer released the Croatoan virus. We couldn’t stop it in time. Most of the angels are dead. The few who survived are either fallen and Graceless, basically human- including you, Cas- or working with Lucifer. As of this moment, over in May 2014, three-fifth of the world is dead. Of what’s left, half are infected. The rest of us are trying to survive, killing whatever tries to kill us, setting up camps. I’m leading one of the groups myself. We set up base at Camp Chitaqua. Mostly, we’re trying to kill the Devil.”

“How are you planning on doing that?” Cas asked.

Dean smiled without humor. “I found the Colt, along with a couple of other hunters at the Camp. Some demons had it. In a few days, Cas, Chuck, a woman named Risa, and I are gonna track down Lucifer and use it on him.”

“Wait.” His past self held up a hand, giving Dean a chance to catch his breath, only to lose it again in the next second. “If you’re doing that- leading the camp and killing the Devil- then where’s _he_?” He pointed a finger at Sam, almost accusingly. “Still being normal?”

Dean actually snarled at him, forgetting himself for a moment. “ _Shut up!_ Shut. Up. You don’t know a goddamn thing about Sam if you seriously think that.” Red-hot fury colored his vision. “Sam isn’t… He’s…” The anger vanished as fast as it came, leaving weariness. He couldn’t tell the truth. He just couldn’t.

Sam didn’t let him recover. “I’m dead, aren’t I?” He asked.

The words were spoken softly, but he may as well have screamed them into a microphone, for all the effect they had. Silence fell over the room like an anvil. Dean wanted to look away, wanted to look anywhere but at Sam, though he’d barely taken his eyes off him since arriving in 2009. But Sam’s gaze was gentle and firm and they kept Dean’s attention trapped.

“It’s just the way you’ve been looking at me,” he went on, ignoring everyone else, his voice soft like he was twelve years old again and quoting his favorite poems to his big brother, instead of talking about his own death. “Like you’re worried I’ll disappear. You keep touching me like you’re checking that I’m real. The last time you did that…” His eyes cut to past-Dean. “Was after Cold Oak. And the time before that…” He looked back at Dean. “Was when I started hunting again after Stanford.”

Dean didn’t know what else to do. He just nodded, vehemently blinking back the tears prickling in his eyes. “Eight months from now,” he whispered. “On May 13th.”

Sam ducked his head, breathing deeply. “How does it happen?” And Dean knows what he’s really asking is, _Tell me I did something good before dying, tell me I didn’t die a failure._

Dean opened his mouth, reconsidered his words, then spoke. “I don’t know the details. There was a heavyweight showdown in Detroit. A whole building chock-full of demons and rogue angels and every single one of them dead by the time we got there. You’d gone alone. And you… You didn’t make it.” _All true, all true, all true, all true_ , he chanted to himself.

“ _Alone_?” His past self repeated in a mumble. “What do you mean… Why was he _alone_? Why weren’t you with him?!” His voice rose with his anger. “What, you were too busy playing captain, or-”

“Dean, don’t-” Sam tried to placate, but he was interrupted.

“No, Sam, don’t you defend him now!” Past-Dean yelled. “He let you walk into a building full of demons without backup, he let you _die_ , alone and-”

“And whose fault is that?!” Dean demanded, getting to his feet. “Who told him to _pick a hemisphere_?! Who shut the door in his face when he was asking to be together?! Who put the fucking phone down when he was _begging_ you not to?!” His voice grew louder with every word, chest heaving with the weight of everything he’d been wanting to yell at himself. “Before he died, I spent months agonizing over whether he was still alive. And when I found out about the battle in Detroit, I never even got to say goodbye, because of what _you_ said to him.”

His past self was suddenly ashen, lips pressed so tight they looked white. “You can’t pretend that wasn’t you,” he spoke through grit teeth. “You can’t pretend that you’re separate from me.”

Dean laughed, the sound broken and harsh. “We’re not separate,” he agreed sarcastically. “But that doesn’t mean we’re the same. Because we _aren’t_. I’m the one who’s spent the last five years _begging_ and _praying_ to every deity out there to give me another chance. _I’m_ the one who’s been waking up ever day _lost_ and _alone_ and _hoping_ , in vain, that I’d miraculously have him back. And _you_!” He jabbed a finger in the air, pointing at his past self with vitriol. “ _You’re_ the reason for it all. _You_ convinced Sam so thoroughly that you wanted nothing to do with him, that he changed his number, his credit cards, every single one of his aliases, so that when we did try to find him, we couldn’t. He disappeared completely, all to hide from _us_. Because _you_ were so caught up in all your pride and hurt that you didn’t realize how fucking _terrified_ Sam was of _you_. He thought you were going to kill him, that you saw him as a monster, but he still stayed. He still stayed with you, because he thought he _deserved_ it, that he deserved to be fucking _hunted_.”

“What?” His past self said blankly. “I didn’t… I never… What the hell are you talking about, I never said any of that. Sammy…” He trailed off, when he realized the pain on Sam’s face. “Sam, what…?”

“You don’t… How can you not remember?” He asked, voice cracking in distress. “It was barely a month ago, I was… That voice mail is the reason I’d finally gone through with it.”

“What voice mail?” Past-Dean asked blankly. “The one I sent an hour before catching up with you at the church? Sammy, I apologized to you in that, for saying the same thing dad had said to you. I said that we’re brothers and that that would never change.”

Sam looked like he was hyperventilating and Dean moved to him immediately. He placed a comforting hand on the side of his neck and watched with relief when Sam leaned into the touch. Keeping his hand there, Dean turned to glare at Cas, who was looking at the floor with a blank face.

“Go on, Castiel,” Dean hissed. “Tell them. Tell them what happened that night, what you did, _Angel of the Lord._ ”

Everyone watched Cas, waiting for him to speak. “I'm the one who let Sam out of the panic room,” he admitted in a low voice.

The confession was almost anticlimactic, with the way everyone stared at him, dumbfounded. Nobody had expected Cas to have been the one at fault. Even Sam, as forgiving as he was, was looking at the angel with a look of betrayal in his eyes.

“And then, when Dean was in the luxury room, sending that voice mail,” he went on. “Zachariah told me to change the words. He said… Sam might have second thoughts and would be needing a nudge in the right direction. Since I’d spent more time with both of you, he felt I would be best at constructing a fake message that would seem realistic enough.” Everything was said in a low murmur. But by the end of it, Cas was gazing at Sam earnestly, pleading with his eyes for understanding. “I knew it was wrong, Sam, I knew even as I did it. But I didn’t have a- I hadn’t yet realized that I had a choice.” He took a deep breath. “Sam… I’m sorry. I understand if you don’t…”

“It’s okay,” Sam cut in, in a barely audible voice. “It’s okay, Cas. We all make mistakes.”

And no matter how much Dean might wish for Sam to sometimes be a little more merciless, a little more unforgiving, he knew he wouldn’t really be Sam if he were. And Dean loved Sam too much to wish for him to be any different.

“What did the fake voice mail say?” Bobby asked, suddenly. “What did it say, Cas?” When Cas didn’t reply immediately, he turned to Sam. “Sam? What did it say, boy?”

This was Bobby’s attempt at clearing the air, Dean knew. Like hashing out all the dirty laundry would help heal a wound like this.

To his surprise, Sam slowly pulled out his phone, collapsing on a chair like he couldn’t stay standing any longer. He escaped Dean’s hold in doing so and Dean didn’t have it in him to be embarrassed at the way his hands visibly jolted forward to touch him again, before pulling back.

Then Sam placed the phone on the table, buried his head in his hands, and Dean heard the message he’d only found out about in 2014.

“ _Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak_ ,” Dean’s voice, filled to the brim with cold loathing and unforgiving hatefulness, rang through the room with crystal clear clarity. “ _Dad always said I’d either have to save you or kill you. Well, I’m giving you a fair warning: I’m done trying to save you. You’re a monster, Sam, a vampire. You’re not you anymore and there’s no going back_.”

The message ended, the phone pinged with a notification and everyone watched in stunned silence as Sam saved the voice mail once more.

Past-Dean was the one to break the lull. “I didn’t… That wasn’t… That wasn’t me,” he stammered, all his bravado gone. “That’s… Oh god.” He exhaled shakily. “Sam, I didn’t… How could you believe I would say any of that? And… Why didn’t you say anything?”

Both Dean and Sam turned incredulous eyes at him, though Sam’s were heartbroken and Dean’s were angry.

“Because you’d already said it before, you dickhead,” Dean snapped. “Because you’d already told him that he’d turned himself into a monster, that you would hunt him if you didn’t know him. Because you were so busy blaming him for the Apocalypse, that the angels barely had to work on you. While Sam got tricked by Ruby, you got played like a cheap kazoo by Heaven. You even managed to forget what you did in Hell, because you got so caught up in playing their _Righteous Man_. As if,” he broke off with a bark of laughter. “Don’t you remember being twenty-two years old, _Dean_ , before Sam left for college? Or twenty-six, meeting Jessica? For that matter, don’t you remember the fucking siren?! We,” he spat. “Have never been anything but twisted and fucked up.”

With those words, Dean stalked out Bobby's door, to the yard. He had to get out. Otherwise, he'd punch his past self in the face and he'd promised Sam that he wouldn't do that. But also, as he stood resting his arms on top of the Impala, something he often still did in his time, he realized how much he'd let slip in there. How much he'd revealed. _Fuck_. Dean buried his face in his hand, leaning heavily on the car. He needed to be alone. He needed Sammy. If his little brother even wanted to see his face anymore.

After all, even Sam Winchester’s benevolence had to have a limit, right? Maybe he'd been willing to forgive each of Dean's transgressions as they'd happened or been confessed to, but after Dean had just laid them all out like that? After he'd named his sins for Sam’s judgement? Would Sam be able to forgive them now? Would he even pretend to?

He wasn’t all that eager to find out, even though he felt jittery and nauseous with the need to be near Sammy again. And yet, a part of him was scared.

He would have laughed at that if he could. What would the people of the future think of him now? Dean Winchester, ruthless killer and cold leader, reduced to a mess of a man who turned to jelly at the mention of his little brother, terrified at the thought of facing the man yet unable to stand the smallest distance from him.

God, was this what Sam had felt like whenever he’d needed a fix of the blood?

He didn’t know how long he stood there before there was the sound of the door opening and closing. Dean didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Without a word, Sam walked up to stand next to him, mimicking his position, car keys jingling lightly in his hand. Dean didn't let himself think that Sam used to stand on the opposite side of the car. He instead wondered what Sam said to get his past self to give up the keys. They stood in silence, but not for long.

“How can you even stand to be near me?” Dean asked, when Sam didn’t say anything. “How are you not kicking me off as far away as possible?”

Sam tilted his head in his direction, but didn’t speak yet.

“After Hell, after what I did to you, after I drove you to suicide…” He trailed off. “How are you not trying to break my bones?”

Sam sighed. “Because you’re still Dean,” he said, matter-of-factly. “None of that changes what you mean to me.”

Dean scoffed, turning to face Sam. “You don’t even know what I’ve done in the last five years. I’ve saved barely half the number of people I let die. Heck, I’ve _killed_ so many people. They were all infected or _probably_ infected, so maybe some of them were mercy kills, but so many were in cold blood, because I couldn’t take that chance. So many of those people had been _my_ men, men who trusted me to keep them safe. I haven’t cared about vessels since I lost you. I don’t even distinguish between angels and demons anymore. I just… Kill. You’re the one with the demon blood and you think that makes you bad, but, Sammy, I’m the monster.” He finished his rant and waited.

Sam shook his head. “You’re not a monster and I don’t care about the rest. You’re still my brother.”

“Sam,” Dean sighed. “Sammy.” Funny, how he’d used that word more times in one day than in half a decade.

“What did you mean, when you asked him…?” He nodded towards the house to show he meant past-Dean. “When you told him you’ve always been… Twisted? When you mentioned Jessica and the time before Stanford? And… The siren?”

Dean went still. He could turn Sam away with this conversation. Did it make any difference? In just one more day, he’d be back in his own time. If he failed to change the future, then Sam would still be gone. What did he have to lose? Not Sam, that was for sure.

“I liked Jess, in the few minutes I spoke to her while you packed,” he mumbled. “But I also hated her. So, so much. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t happy or glad or anything when she died,” he added hastily. “I just… I hated her… And I hated Ruby. But it wasn’t because of the demon blood, not entirely. I mean, I hated her before I even knew about the blood, even though I was also grateful to her for saving your life. But I just couldn’t tell you why. Hell, I could barely admit to myself back then, it made me feel so wrong. So I took it out on you.”

Sam shifted infinitesimally closer, fully focused on him. “Tell me now.”

Dean felt his breath hitch. They were standing close enough now that he could feel the warmth radiating from Sam’s body. Again, his fingers twitched, torn between gently stroking Sam’s skin and roughly tugging him closer. Hold him tight or keep him at arm’s length to commit his face to memory again?

“Do you remember that night in Minnesota?” Dean asked in a hushed whisper. “Redwood Falls? Middle of winter?”

This time, Sam stiffened, face closed and unreadable, and began to turn away a bit.

Dean acted without thinking, grabbing Sam’s face with both hands, much like he had that night eight years ago. Except back then, he’d been trying to hold him back, unwilling to let his own fucked up desires touch his innocent brother. Now, Dean was pulling him as close as Sam let him.

Sam didn’t struggle, but he stayed tense.

“It was the week before Christmas,” Dean continued, thumbs pressing into the bags beneath Sam’s eyes. “Dad was out on a hunt with Caleb. We were taking a walk on the bridge next to the lake. We were drunk.” His voice dropped a little lower, unintentionally. “You asked me for something, Sammy. Do you remember what you asked me?”

“I remember you told me _no_ and we never mentioned it again,” Sam replied, voice low, bitter and hurt, refusing to meet his eyes. “You gave me a few reasons for it too.”

“Sammy,” Dean repeated. He waited for Sam to look at him. “Sammy, I hated those girls. And that siren… He’d known why.” _Come on_ , he thought urgently. _Come on, please. You're too smart not to figure this out_. And there it was, he found it- the desperation, the want, the love. Everything he felt returned in equal measure in Sam’s eyes.

And Sam must have seen something on his face too, for the way his jaw slackened.

So, Dean took a chance- taboos and thoughts of _dirtybadwrong_ could go fuck themselves- leaned up the slightest bit and pressed a gentle kiss to his parted lips. For almost thirty seconds _(Dean counted)_ , Sam didn't react and Dean waited with bated breath.

Then it was like a dam breaking.

Sam gasped and his lips crashed into Dean’s with a ferocity that he matched pace for pace. His hands were still framing Sam’s face, so he threaded one into his hair. Sam wound an arm around his waist, pulling him closer, the other hand cupping the back of his head, like he needed to keep him in place.

As if. Dean wasn’t about to move away if an Archangel decided to punish him for sullying something so purely good.

There was nothing gentle about the way Sam kissed. His whole body curved over Dean, all tongue and teeth and panting desperation. His nails dug possessively into Dean’s skin and when Dean tugged at his hair lightly to try slowing him down, he growled, moving with the pull to bite down on his jugular in a way that left Dean with nothing to do but groan.

“Sam, Sammy, Sammy…” Dean couldn’t think. His whole world had narrowed down to the scent of girly shampoo and gun oil, strong hands, chapped lips and a two-syllable word. _Sammy Sammy Sammy. My Sam. Sammy._ His heart was suddenly pumping blood too fast, like he was in battle, and it made him think: _I can have this! Whatever else happens, I can have this!_

Sam broke away abruptly, pressing his forehead to Dean’s, breathing harsh. “ _Dean_ ,” he said, sounding wrecked. “Dean, _god_ , oh god, you have no idea, _for so long_ , you don’t _know_ -”

“I know,” Dean assured. He kissed up the length of Sam’s jaw, traced his tongue along the shell of his ear. Now that he’d had a taste, he couldn’t stop. It was like a fucking addiction, he thought wildly. Sam was his drug of choice and Dean was hooked within seconds.

“Dean,” Sam moaned, as Dean slid a hand under his suddenly unnecessary layers of clothing, needing to feel more of him, needing it in a way he couldn’t name.

“I know,” he repeated breathlessly. “Fuck, Sammy, I know.”

He pulled Sam into another kiss. At some point, Sam had unlocked the car and was now manhandling Dean into the back seat. Later, Dean would think about how hot that was. Right now, he just followed the wordless instructions, pulling his little brother in on top of him, trying his best not to break contact between lips and skin.

“Hey, wait, wait, wait, hey, hold on,” Sam whispered.

Dean froze, staring wide-eyed up at Sam, who was somehow balanced precariously on top of him. In the sparse moonlight that shone inside the car, his eyes were molten silver.

“There’s nothing you need to apologize for, least of all to me,” Sam said, fingers tracing patterns into his scalp.

Dean felt like there was something stuck in his throat and he closed his eyes, trying to banish the hot tears pooling in them.

Sam pressed a kiss to each of his eyelids. “But if you really need to hear it that badly,” he went on, soft and sweet. “Then, I forgive you.

Sam didn’t give him time to react, instead shoved his plaid shirt off, started tugging at the Henley with insistent fingers and the last coherent thought Dean had before returning the favor was, ‘ _Salvation was made for sinners.’_


	6. Chapter 6

_The moonlight sparkled on the snow around them. Drunk as they were, it seemed like a scene out of a fairytale._

_For Dean, the way Sam was leaning heavily into his side, giggling into his shoulder, was just a part of that fairytale._

_For the last three years, since Sam had turned 15, the brothers just hadn't been as close as they used to be. It hurt and Dean wanted nothing more than to regain that relationship. But he also know why the distance was there- Sam was getting tired of their life. And though he tried not to think about it, he knew the day was soon coming when Sam would leave. To be honest, he was surprised he hadn’t left right after he turned 18, but he wasn’t complaining. Of course, he knew Sammy was meant for better things than this half-life they led, but until he actually did leave, Dean wasn’t going to take a single second for granted. So moments like this, when Sam forgot that he was too old for cuddling with his brother, were the moments Dean lived for._

_“De,” Sam squealed- yes, that’s right, he squealed, because Sam channeled the spirit of a teenage girl when he was drunk. “Let’s stop here for a second.”_

_They were on the bridge that ran over the lake and the waterfall. It was all frozen right now, a painting of ice and cold white light._ Christ, I'm waxing poetic _, Dean thought in mild alarm. “Sammy, it's friggin cold,” he grumbled. “I don't wanna wake up tomorrow with frozen balls.”_

_“But it's so beautiful,” Sam whispered and for a few seconds, Dean stared at his brother’s wide eyes, pink-tipped nose and wonder-struck smile. His floppy hair was tucked beneath a beanie pulled low over his brow and an ugly red scarf was wrapped around his neck, giving him a very snuggly look, like he was actually 18, not an adult who’d seen more death and darkness than anyone ever should._

_Then he turned to the scenery. It was beautiful, though he wasn’t about to admit that out loud. In his drunken haze, everything seemed idyllic and dreamlike. Even Sam, he realized. Sammy looked beautiful tonight. Or all the time and Dean was only thinking it now. Had been thinking it for months actually. No matter how much he tried not to._

_He turned to Sam again, only to find him already looking up at him with a goofy, but strangely nervous grin._

_“De,” he stage-whispered. “Can I ask you for something?”_

_He was too close, Dean thought randomly, afraid as always of what he might do if he wasn’t careful. He nodded. “What is it?”_

_Sam took a deep breath. And then he kissed Dean._

_His lips were chapped. His fingers, tentatively trailing over Dean’s jaw and neck, weren’t cold, but calloused and somehow warm, like tiny fires. He tasted of cheap whiskey and smelled like girly shampoo and gun oil. It felt natural, familiar, like everything he could ever want, and heat spread inside Dean’s chest until he could barely feel the cold._

_Then Sam broke away half an inch and mumbled, “Please kiss me back.”_

_And Dean’s brain kicked in._

_“Sam!” He gasped, jerking away, hands grabbing Sam’s face to keep him from leaning forward again. “Sam, what- what are you- what the hell?” He should be yelling. But his voice was hoarse, stunned, all effects of alcohol evaporated._

_Sam looked guilty. “ That's all I wanted to ask for. I’ve been meaning to for a while,” he confessed. There wasn’t a hint of regret on his face. “And I think you have too.”_

_Dean spluttered. “No, I haven’t been- Sam, what even are you- we’re brothers!” He exclaimed._

_“So?” Sam asked softly. “We’re also all we have.”_

_He didn’t lean in again, but he didn’t move away either. He stayed still, gazing up at Dean with hope and resignation warring in his glittering eyes. And all Dean could think of was all the reasons they shouldn’t._

_Dad might find out and he would blame himself for it_ (yes, Dean had taken a peek at the journal once or twice, sue him) _. As much as Dean loved Sam, he couldn’t do that to their father._

_Sam would leave. It wasn’t a question of_ if _, but rather_ when _. Dean knew it. Dad knew it. Sam knew it. He would leave, no matter what happened tonight, and Dean would be left behind with half a soul. He wouldn’t be able to handle a broken heart on top of that._

_And, lastly, Dean was the one who was going to be alone. For him, there would never be anything or anyone except Sam. There never had been anyone else, even before all these new found feelings entered the picture. But Sam would find someone else, someone who could kiss him and hold him without hiding, who could give him a life without blood and violence. Someone who could love him wholly and purely. Dean’s love was wrong, fucked up, and despite knowing that, he couldn’t bring himself to stop feeling them. He was supposed to protect Sammy, not sully him._

_“No.”_

_The shock and naked hurt that filled Sam’s eyes almost made him change his mind. “Dean,” he said weakly. “Please.”_

_Dean moved on instinct, pressing their foreheads together. They breathed the same air, the space between them foggy, so close that only a couple inches forward and their lips would meet. He watched Sam’s eyes close, but kept his own open, never tiring of that beautiful face. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly, willing his voice not to break. “But I can’t be that for you, Sam. I can’t be more than your brother.”_

_“Dean, please,” Sam repeated, begging now. “I can’t… You want this too. I can’t have read you wrong. You want this!”_

_His hands were still framing Sam’s face. It would be easy to reel him in, close the distance. “You did read me wrong,” Dean told him, firmly and gently. “I’m sorry.”_

_Sam broke away, wrenching out of Dean’s grasp. A single harsh sob broke the serenity around them, before he clammed up, blinking his tears away and turning around. “We should get back to the motel.”_

_Dean hung back for a second, then followed after him. He was starting to feel the cold, could feel it seeping into his pores, freezing him from the inside._

_Sam never kissed him again after that._

_Dean wished he could stop waiting for him to._

* * *

Winchester’s departure had left an awkward silence in its wake. Sam had sat at the table as the door slammed shut, hand over his eyes. 

Cas and Bobby had fidgeted as Dean stared at Sam.

“Sammy?” He’d asked, tentatively.

Sam had looked up at him, eyes tired and wary.

Dean hadn’t really know what he could say, still didn't. _Sorry_? Sorry didn’t cut it, not even close. God, to think that Sam had actually been _scared_ of _him_.

Before he could have made up his mind on what to say, Sam, who’d gotten tired of waiting for him to speak, had stood up and extended his hand. “Give me the car keys,” he’d asked in a flat voice that held no emotion, but left no room for argument.

Dean had handed them over. It tore at him in a way he didn't want to inspect when Sam headed out the door as well.

Now, from his place by the window, he could see Sam come to a stop at the Impala, where Winchester was leaning against it.

He turned away, taking Sam’s seat at the table, while Cas took his at the window. Dean didn’t want to watch his brother comfort a man who wore his face.

“Dean,” Bobby spoke gruffly. “Give him some time. He just had to find out you don’t actually want to kill him from the future version of you. He’ll come around.”

“Sure,” Dean muttered. “Don’t worry about dinner, we ate on the way.”

Bobby nodded. “I’ll go to bed then. You four can split between the mattresses and the sofa?” At Dean and Cas' answering nod, the aged hunter gave one last glance out the window, then wheeled inside to his bedroom.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Cas broke the silence.

Dean shook his head, feeling tired. “Don’t, Cas. Just… Don’t. I can’t deal with this right now.” It was the truth; he felt exhausted right down to his bones. It wasn’t just because of all the revelations made, but also because Winchester’s words had stirred up old feelings and desires that he'd squashed down and ignored for years.

What the fuck was Winchester thinking, saying those stuff? He could only hope that Sam hadn’t figured it out because that would-

Cas made a soft noise of surprise and alarm.

Dean, having rested his forehead against the wooden table top, looked up to find the angel staring out the window, eyes wide.

“What is it?” Dean was up and out of his chair before the question had left his mouth.

“Nothing!” Cas said immediately. Amazingly, his hands came up to land on Dean’s shoulders, not quite pushing, but clearly restraining. “Nothing at all.”

“Cas!” Dean exclaimed in annoyance and a little bit of fear, because what could have rattled Cas? “What the hell are…”

His words trailed off, as he ducked under Cas' arms and reached the window. Outside, next to the Impala, two figures were illuminated under the full moon all too clearly. Winchester was standing close to Sam, _way too close_ , leaning up towards him, hands framing his face and their mouths not even an inch apart as it seemed from afar, while Sam was statue-still, and Dean saw _red_ , he was ready and primed for murder in cold blood, because how _dare_ he touch Sam like that when Sam wasn’t asking for it?

He had drawn his gun before he knew it, ready to throw the window open and take a shot he wouldn’t miss, blow that imposter's head off for even _thinking_ he could do this to Dean’s brother and Cas was saying something, something to stop him, but Dean wasn’t listening to that crap now, not when-

And then, _Sam_ was holding Winchester by the waist, pulling him closer. _Sam_ was cupping the back of his head, using the hold to change the angle as he pleased. _Sam_ was kissing back. _Sam_ was clutching Winchester like a drowning man, desperation visible even from this far, and it was a direct contrast to Winchester, who held Sam like he was something precious, something valuable. Like Winchester was dying and Sam was his only lifeline.

He wasn’t sure if he stumbled back or Cas gently guided him to the mattress, saying something about how he didn’t really need to sleep anyway. All he could see, even if he closed his eyes, was Sam and the imposter, bodies curving into each other, each trying to shelter the other from the world around them.

_Why? Why him? Why_ … How had Winchester so easily done what Dean had been too terrified to even _think_ about for his whole life?

He didn’t realize he’d mumbled his thoughts until Cas spoke. “I caught a glimpse of his soul,” he said in his rough-soft voice. “When I was probing his mind. His soul… Dean, I can’t even explain it right in English.” The angel sounded a little frustrated at his inability to articulate his thoughts.

“What are you saying?” Dean asked, voice so low he might as well have just lip synched. 

Cas' blue eyes looked grave. “His soul is nearly dead, Dean,” he said. “And that shouldn’t be possible. There is nothing stronger than a soul. It can’t be destroyed, not really. It’s energy. But his…”

“He’s lost his soul?” Dean whispered numbly.

Cas looked at him almost pityingly. “No,” he refuted gently. “He’s lost his soul mate.”

_He’s lost his Sam_ , Dean corrected. And try as he might, he couldn’t muster up any sympathy. He _understood_ , oh yes, he understood how the permanent loss of the one person he's ever truly loved could destroy him in a way even Hell couldn't. But he couldn't bring himself to accept Winchester's pain, because... _Because, it should be me!_

Sleep came sparsely to Dean that night, with flashes of reality in the form of Castiel's vigilant form and visions of a long-ago kiss. Somewhere in his dreams, he held Sam in his arms, watched him walk away towards Ruby, drowned in oddly vivid sense memories of gun fire and lightning and blood, a Sam who wasn’t really Sam, all decked out in a white suit- all the while wondering whether his brother still smelled and tasted the same as Dean remembered.

When morning came, his tiredness only grew with the muted understanding that neither Sam nor Winchester had reentered the house since last night.

The crack in his heart opened a little wider.

“I'm gonna go put on breakfast,” he mumbled. Cas looked well rested, better than him any way. “If Sam comes in…” He trailed off, then shrugged and went to the small kitchen, passing Bobby on the way.

The elderly man took a look at the unslept-in couch on the living room floor. “Sam and Winchester spent the night in the car?” He asked. Dean nodded, not pausing on his way. He could have sworn he heard Bobby mutter, “Well, that didn’t take long.” But in his haze, he couldn’t really focus on it.

A few minutes later, Sam walked in as he flipped pancakes and Dean cursed the way his heart tripped over itself at the sight of his still uncombed bed hair and fresh face.

“Hey, Dean,” he greeted quietly. Almost sheepishly.

Dean tried to smile. “Mornin', sunsh-” He stuttered to a stop, a stone in his stomach as he spotted the dark bruise blooming over his throat, right over where his pulse would be.

Sam blushed, quickly buttoning up his plaid so the mark was hidden.

Dean took a deep breath. He’d known exactly what the two had been up to, there was no reason for him to be surprised. “Good morning, Sam,” he finished, turning back to the stove.

He could feel Sam fidgeting to his right. “Dean, I’m sorry,” he blurted out. He didn’t have to say for what. He must have known, by the same instinct that had always guided them towards each other, that Dean had seen him and Winchester last night.

Dean thought back to the last few times Sam had apologized.

_I'm sorry_ , he’d said, before leaving Dean on a bench.

In the parking lot of a hospital.

In a church with the blood of two demons spilt at their feet and the door to Lucifer’s cage pulled open.

Dean hadn’t doubted any of those apologies, even if he hadn’t quite accepted them.

“No, you’re not,” he said quietly. “Not for this. Not for _him_.” He turned to look at him. “Are you?”

Sam didn’t even try to argue. He averted his eyes, biting his lip.

Dean hummed bitterly. “Had a good night then? Wouldn’t have expected you to get much sleep at all, what with my Wonder Twin keeping you up all night,” he wondered. His voice didn’t match the malice in his words but Sam flinched anyway and Dean wondered _why_ , when he was the one hurting. Why was Sam in pain at his words? He had his doppelganger, right?

“Dean, please,” Sam protested. “He’s… You’re not…”

“Just because _you’ve_ been up all night wallowing in your misery,” a new-old voice spoke up. “Doesn’t mean everybody else was.”

Both of them turned to Winchester, Sam with a small, badly restrained, automatic smile and Dean with resigned hatred, as he took in the matching hickeys and rumpled hair.

Winchester returned the smile, easily and without restriction. Dean hadn’t smiled like that since coming back from hell.

Then Winchester looked at him, though his next words were meant for Sam. “And just because he’s a coward, Sammy, doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” he muttered.

Dean’s anger flared. “Well, excuse me, for not forgetting the difference between _taking care_ and _taking advantage_.”

“No, what you forgot is the difference between _protecting_ and _coddling_ ,” Winchester shot back. “And the fact that Sammy isn’t a child anymore.”

Dean couldn’t come up with a response fast enough and Sam stepped between them.

“Okay, guys, come on, this isn’t gonna get us anywhere,” he pleaded with exasperation. “Let’s just… Have breakfast and then plan. De, you’ve only got today left.”

Pain flitted across Winchester's eyes and he slumped ever so slightly. “I know,” he sighed.

Castiel and Bobby chose that moment to enter the small space.

“Figured it was safe to come in now,” Bobby told them casually. “Boy, what the hell are you trying to burn those pancakes for?”

Thankfully, Dean managed to save the breakfast and they ate with tension as thick as smoke in the air, even Cas gingerly picking from the edges of Sam’s plate. And as they ate, Winchester laid out an idea.

“Back in my time, the Colt was with a demon named Crowley,” he informed. “He’s just a crossroads demon, but kinda like their leader.”

“Why would Hell trust the Colt to a crossroads demon?” Cas asked with a frown. 

“Well, according to Becky-”

“I’m sorry- _Becky_?” Sam cut in. “Crazy, wouldn’t-stop-touching-me Becky?”

It was actually a little creepy, the way Winchester’s entire attention snapped to Sam the second he opened his mouth. And he seemed to always be watching him out of the corner of his eye anyway. It was disconcerting to see from the outside, Dean admitted to himself.

“One and the same, Sammy,” Winchester confirmed. “Don’t worry, she grows up. The Apocalypse does tend to bring out a more mature side of people. Anyway, so Becky had a stroke of memory renewal and told me that in Chuck’s books, after Bela gave the Colt to Lilith, she handed it over to Crowley. Apparently, they, uh, had some sort of arrangement.”

Everyone at the table made a face.

“So, the thing is, Lucifer isn’t actually fond of demons himself,” Winchester continued. “Thinks they’re the scum of the earth. Most demons didn’t wise up to this fast enough- I heard Meg rebelled when she realized, was even stupid or brave enough to actively move against him. She got killed for it. But Crowley had expected that from the beginning. So, he stayed on the down low and kept the Colt hidden. He was actually trying to find a way to give it to me, when he heard I was still alive. Luckily, we found each other at a convenient time.”

“Alright, hold on,” Bobby stated. “Do you know where this Crowley is right now?”

“I know how we can find out,” Winchester offered. “Then we can get the Colt five years early and…”

“And gank the devil with it,” Sam finished with him, their voices in tandem.

Winchester fucking _beamed_ at him, eyes crinkling at the corners as Sam huffed in amusement and tapped his shoulder in camaraderie before standing up to collect everyone’s plates. Winchester stood with him, following him to the kitchen sink, with a graceful easiness, like it was the best thing in the world to be right at Sam’s side.

_Like a fucking addict_ , Dean thought viciously. It didn’t make him feel better like he’d hoped.

Cas begged off, saying he needed to find God. Winchester pursed his lips tightly at that, like there was something he knew but couldn’t tell. As he and Sam packed, Dean went out to the garage to call Chuck and get a hold of his emotions.

“ _Uh, Dean?_ ”

“Hey, yeah, listen, I need you to check your books for something,” Dean explained.

“ _Yeah?_ ”

“Apparently, it’s mentioned somewhere that Lilith had given the Colt to a crossroads demon named Crowley? Any idea where the bastard is right now?”

“ _Uh, does this have anything to do with your future counterpart being here?_ ”

Dean paused. “You saw that.”

“ _Yeah, I did. And no, I don’t know who sent him here._ ” There was the sound of rustling pages. “ _Okay, the guy you’re looking for is a business man sorta guy, so make sure you have something to offer him in return. I’ll text you the address_.”

“Okay, thanks, and, hey, uh…” Dean sighed, wondering when he became so masochistic. “You saw everything that’s been happening, right?”

“ _Ye-es…_ ”

He hesitated. “Can you tell me what exactly happened last night? With Sam? And… Him?”

There was a pregnant pause, like Chuck was taking time to process the question. “ _You don’t really want to know, do you?_ ”

He thought about it. On the one hand, the image of Sam and Winchester making out feverishly against the Impala was burned into the back of his eyelids and he wished he could scrub it out. Did he really want to add more to that, virtue of his overactive Sammy-related imagination?

On the other hand, there was an aching need to find out, to know how much he’d lost, how much of himself Sam had given to Winchester.

“Bye, Chuck,” Dean mumbled, without answering the question, and hung up.

He thought about heading back in, but the sound of approaching footsteps shot that idea down.

“Dean,” Sam greeted, in a small voice.

Dean leaned his head back against the wall. “If you’re here to ask about my feelings, then don’t work too hard. I'm happy to tell you that future-me is a dick and I don’t like him.”

Sam gave him bitch face #13: _You’re being ridiculous, Dean_. “He hasn’t really done anything to warrant that opinion.”

He glared. He couldn’t find the guts to say that Winchester’s actions and words were forcing himself to face a few truth about himself, some he’d always known and tried to bury, others he could never have fathomed in all his life.

“Yeah, of course, you’re defending _him_ ,” he muttered. “Gave you everything you ever wanted, didn’t he?”

This time, Sam didn’t flinch. “I didn’t ask him for it, you know,” he defended himself. “He said it was what he’d wanted too. What _you’d_ wanted.”

“He isn’t _me_!” Dean snapped. “He’s _not_ me, he’s not! Cas says he barely has a soul!”

Sam regarded him with eyes that suddenly seemed to see too much. “Isn’t he, though? You?” He questioned quietly. “Doesn’t seem all that different to me, actually. Just… A little rougher around the edges. Maybe broken. And if, I mean, if being with me makes him better, even by a little bit, then I’m not gonna say _no_. Especially when he says he’s been wanting it all the time. That _you_ refuse to come to terms with that.”

Dean resisted the urge to scream. “And you believed him?” He laughed harshly. “Like you believed Ruby? Is he really that good of a kisser? Or did he let you fuck him too?”

Silence reigned. Sam’s face was white, but he didn’t move. He just stared at Dean, stern and unmoving. Like, when he’d beaten Dean bloody in a hotel room. Like, when he’d stood in the middle of an empty road at night, bag in hand and demanding Dean let him go. And Dean knew he'd crossed some sort of line with what he'd said, but he also knew that he was losing Sam.

“I'm sorry,” he choked. “That wasn’t… I didn't mean that. I get why the thing with Ruby happened, I get it. It was my fault, too. I went to Hell and I left you with her. And then I refused to listen to you when you tried to explain. I believed Cas and the angels instead. I shouldn’t have.”

Sam swallowed. “It’s okay,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry too. I should have wised up about Ruby. She knew all my weak spots. And… I should have realized that that voicemail wasn’t really from you. It’s just… What you’d said in the hotel room…”

“I know,” Dean whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Sam nodded. “Please, please stop picking a fight with him,” he requested in a small voice. 

Dean swallowed, hurt that Sam was making a case for Winchester. “Okay, Sammy,” he agreed.

They walked back into the main house together, Dean looking down and watching the way their steps were in sync with each other.

Winchester was fiddling with his Colt, eyes landing on Sam as soon as they entered the room. Dean noted the way his body relaxed visibly and wondered if that’s how he reacted too whenever Sam was in the same space as him.

“Sammy, you remember what time it was when you…?” He glanced at Dean, scowling momentarily. “When I barged into the motel room?”

Sam scrunched his nose in remembrance. “Uh, close to 5 AM, I think.”

Winchester nodded. “So, I’ve got till tomorrow early morning. You mind setting an alarm for it?”

Sam nodded, already focused on his phone. Winchester kept staring at him, sadness and regret and longing clear as day on his face. Then he caught Dean looking and every emotion was wiped clear.

“Okay,” Dean sighed. “I got the location to Crowley’s hide out. It’s a couple hours. Provided nothing happens, we should reach by early evening.” He grabbed the keys from the hook, pulling his jacket on.

“As if anything ever goes perfectly right for us,” Sam grumbled. He peered at Dean closely. “Did you even get any sleep last night? You look like you’ll fall asleep at the wheel.”

Dean hesitated, then groaned exaggeratedly. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ll just stretch out in the backseat.”

Sam made a move to take the keys from him, but Dean bypassed him. He took two steps forward and held them out to Winchester.

His future counterpart raised an eye brow, looking between him and keys. It was a peace offering, he knew it, and after a few long seconds, he accepted it, careful not to touch Dean’s hand.

Dean glanced at Sam. He was fighting back a small, pleased smile, and it warmed him a little to know that he’d caused that. But that was the overwhelming jealousy talking, right?

He fell asleep almost as soon as he got into the backseat. He was vaguely aware of Winchester sliding in behind the wheel with a pleased sound, of Sam’s fond smile that may have been directed to either of them, of Winchester's free arm stretching over the top of their seat to constantly brush against Sam’s hair and back of his neck.

But mostly, he dreamed.

Burning blue eyes, saying, “He’s gone, Dean,” repeatedly.

The sharp edges of his amulet digging into his palm as he gripped it tight.

The sky ripped apart by lightning, glinting off the dagger in the wrong hand.

Sam’s lips, too close to his ear, dressed in white, his eyes cold and his voice all wrong, saying, “In the end, he hated you.”

Then there was the sound of screeching metal and Dean jerked awake, fear growing in the pit of his stomach.

“Sammy,” he gasped.

“Shhh,” Winchester hissed.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice trembled. “Look.”

Sitting up, Dean tried to focus. His blood ran a little cold when he realized what he was looking at. A line of demons, at least ten of them, were blocking the road that led through the next small town. Smoke hung in the air. Behind them and their cars, a few miles away, there was an unnaturally red hue on the horizon. _Hellfire_ , Dean thought. The town was on fire and everyone in it was probably dead.

One of the demons stepped forward and even in the smoke, it was easy to recognize the thick black hair and seductive swagger.

“Heya, boys,” Meg called. “Time to stop hiding and get out of the car.”

“Now what?” Sam hissed.

Dean grit his teeth. “Crowley’s through that town. There’s no point in turning around, they’ll just appear again. We have to go through them.”

“We’re outmatched,” Winchester mused. “They’re here for Sam.”

Sam sighed. “Of course, they are.”

Winchester got out first, Sam followed, and Dean stood guard at back. Later, he’d think how poetic it was: two versions of Dean Winchester flanking their raison d'etre.

“Hi, Sam,” Meg greeted with a lascivious grin. “You hurt my feelings last time.”

Sam didn’t answer, though Dean could practically see him bite back a snarky comment.

“But, I’ll forgive and forget if you come with me right now. And who knows? Maybe no one will get hurt,” she suggested, walking closer.

All three of them raised weapons; one angel blade and two versions of Ruby’s knife, present and future.

Meg clicked her tongue mockingly. “Nu uh, boys,” she scolded and flicked her fingers.

Sam got pushed back against the car, the demon knife falling from his hand. Dean and his future self were thrown against two trees, their bodies pinned to the trunks, weapons useless in their hands.

Meg surveyed the two of them, casual as you please. “Two Dean Winchesters,” she observed dryly. “Like, one wasn’t bad enough?” She cocked her head. “Time travel, huh? Only angels have got the mojo for something like that.” When neither of them answered, she shrugged and turned to Sam again, kicking Ruby’s knife away from his reach.

Dean felt fear seep through a fissure in his mask of calm. The smoke was getting thicker, making it harder to breathe, as the fire in the distance kept on burning.

“Now, Sam,” Meg drawled, elongating the syllables. “Be a good boy and I’ll let them go.” She grinned. “I’ll even let you tie me up as a bonus.”

Sam huffed, straining to move away from her approaching form. “Go to hell,” he snarled quietly.

“Very original,” she laughed. “Maybe tying up isn’t your thing. The way Ruby told it, you’re far kinkier than that. Blood play is more up your alley, isn’t it, Sam?”

Sam only grimaced, but Dean felt a strong wave of disgust and hurt. Beside him, Winchester was literally shivering with rage.

Meg placed her hand on Sam’s chest, fingers digging into the shirt. Her nails must have been sharp, because Sam winced slightly.

“You know, Sammy,” she spoke like she was talking to a child. “I could just cut away your pesky tattoo and take your body to my King.”

Sam managed a laugh. “Yeah, right. As if Lucifer wants his vessel to be touched by anyone except himself.”

“Exactly,” Meg agreed with a laugh. “And it wouldn’t be much fun that way, either.” She stepped away and Sam tensed up. “So, this is what we’re going to do instead. You come with me quietly, I'll leave well enough alone. If not, I kill one of your brothers. Heck, I’ll even let you choose which one.”

“Oh, for the love of god, please, enough with the monologue!” Dean exclaimed. He might as well have not been there at all.

“I’ll take option three,” Sam said.

A slow smile spread on Meg’s pale face. “Option three,” she enunciated. “Option three is… Well, I could break their hearts and tell them the Devil had to bring you back to life because you were too weak to carry on without big brother holding your hand.” She smirked. “Oops.”

Dean felt his breath leave him, like a punch to the stomach. Sam had… Sam had done _what_? No. No, it couldn’t be. Sam wouldn’t… He couldn’t have… Why did he look so guilty and horrified?

A quick glance at Winchester’s grim face confirmed the validity of the claim. And that he had known. 

“Or,” Meg went on. “I could tell them all the dirty little thoughts I found in your head that one week. How disgusted do you think he’d be?”

Sam closed his eyes, his breathing shaky. “My answer is still the same,” he said firmly. He looked down at her, fire in his eyes. “No.”

Meg regarded him stoically. “Okay, then.” She took a few steps back. “Which one do I kill?”

Sam blanched and started struggling against the invisible force pinning him, as one of the demons stepped towards Dean and his future self, knife in hand.

“No, no, Meg, stop,” he ordered. “Stop it, I swear, I’ll kill you, Meg!”

“Time’s a-tickin', Boy King,” she teased. “Choose. Which brother do I kill?”

As the demon came to a stop in front of them, Dean met Sam’s eye, his own watering from the ashes in the air. He looked desperate, apologetic, gaze flickering between him and Winchester.

“You know what?” Meg was saying. “I’ll choose. I don’t like present Dean all that much. Let’s start with him.”

“Yeah, lady,” Dean scoffed. “Makes sense. I did send you to Hell twice, so-”

“No!” Winchester interrupted. “I’ve sent you to Hell a third time in the future. And, I’m the one who gets you killed, so-”

Sam’s yelling interrupted the bluff. “Both of you shut up! Meg, you touch a hair on their heads-”

Meg laughed. “You can’t do anything, Sam. You’re too weak right now. Kill him, Damon.”

The knife swung up in an arc, flashed silver in the setting sun. Dean’s eyes fell closed on their own accord, waiting for the blow.

Sam screamed, “No!” And something whooshed past Dean’s face.

He opened his eyes again just in time to see Sam, freely standing, catch the demon’s knife in his hand and throw it back. It got lodged in it’s neck, skin flashing orange from the inside, and Ruby’s dagger flew from the ground to Sam’s open palm.

“Oh, crap!” Meg cursed, stumbling away, and Dean felt his body be released from the power holding them immobile.

It all took less than five seconds and then the rest of the demons were on them and it was like a free for all. Dean found himself battling two demons at once, stabbing one in the neck and punching the other. He was dimly aware of Winchester, grunting harshly as he grabbed a demon in a chokehold and snapped her neck, forgoing the knife. Another demon started towards them, but then…

A howl ripped the air and Dean felt terror slip down his spine. “Hellhound,” he gasped.

There was the sound of paw steps, large and heavy, harsh panting, and a low growl.

Dean took a nervous step away from the direction of the sounds, the demon attacking him stepping in the opposite direction. He could feel the tense line of Winchester’s shoulder as he stood next to him.

The remaining five demons looked nervous as well.

Then one of them screamed, collapsing to the ground with a bleeding torso as the invisible creature tore into him.

As the others scattered, trying to escape the hellhound, who was mercifully ignoring the humans present, Dean hurried to bring Sam back into his line of sight. He spotted him still in front of the Impala, back to them. Dean felt terror zip through him as he saw Sam’s outstretched hand, palm facing Meg, who was frozen in place, but still smirking. Dean couldn’t see his face, but his spine was stiff. Next to Dean, Winchester cursed under his breath.

“Come on, Sam,” Meg laughed. “You’re not nearly strong enough to send me back to Hell, much less kill me. How long will you be able to just freeze me like this?”

Sam didn’t answer. But the hellhound's growls increased in volume as it methodically hunted the other demons and Meg’s expression turned a little apprehensive.

Then she caught Dean’s eyes over Sam’s shoulder. And she said, “Looks like big brother's getting chomped on, Sam.”

The little trick worked. Sam whipped around, eyes frantic and searching until they settled on Dean and Winchester, both of whom inhaled sharply at the sight of his bone-white skin and the blood dripping from his nose.

With the momentary distraction, Meg broke free and disappeared.

And the hellhound seemed to vanish as well.

Sam stared at the spot where Meg had been.

“Sammy?” Winchester called softly.

He flinched. Slowly, he turned. He was trembling, eyes wide and dark, almost black. His lips were stained with the blood from his nose. He stared at them, unable to settle on one.

“I’m sor…” His eyes rolled back and he swayed.

They moved towards him at the same time, Dean reaching first. He caught Sam just in time to stop his head from hitting the ground. 

“Sammy?” Winchester called his name frantically, as he checked his pulse. “Sammy, hey, come on, wake up.”

“Sam?” Dean's own voice trembled, as he patted Sam’s cheek lightly. His eyes were stinging, from tears and the smoke that was getting thicker every minute. He couldn’t even muster up any resentment for Winchester. “He’s not breathing.”

“Sammy?”

“He’s unconscious, not dead.”

They turned as much as they could to keep both Sam and the newcomer in sight. The speaker was short, stocky, wearing a business suit, standing at Sam’s feet. Red eyes.

“Crowley,” Winchester muttered. He hadn’t stopped carding through Sam’s hair.

The demon’s eyes faded to brown. “Hello, boys,” he greeted, in a posh British accent. “You’re welcome for the rescue, by the way.”

“Rescue?!” Dean demanded.

“Who do you think sent the hellhound?” He asked, smugly. “I heard the Winchesters were in the area, looking for the Colt. I figured I might as well lend a hand. After all, we’ve got the same goal here, haven’t we?”

“Forget that for a second,” Winchester growled. “What’s wrong with Sam?”

Crowley looked extremely annoyed at being interrupted. Obviously, he was used to having his orders followed. “He has never deliberately used his powers without drinking demon blood first," he explained slowly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Without practice, he shouldn’t have been able to even just _hold_ a demon, especially one of Miss Meg’s credibility, for so long. But I suppose he found inspiration. In any case, his mind and body weren’t prepared for the taxation and he’s slipped into a minor coma-like state.”

“A _coma_?” Dean exclaimed in panic.

“How can we fix him?” Winchester asked.

Crowley sighed, bored. “He’ll be awake by tomorrow morning at the latest. You can feed him a few drops of blood to speed up the healing process considerably.”

It seemed as if Winchester had teleported. In a flash, he was on his feet, holding Crowley in a chokehold with the knife at his throat. “Well, good thing you’re right here then,” he snarled a little.

“Hey!” Dean snapped. “Are you crazy? We’re not going down that road again! He’ll wake up tomorrow-”

“I won’t be here tomorrow!” Winchester shot back.

“Really, this is unnecessary, boys,” Crowley sighed. “A few drops won’t juice him up, it’ll only heal him. His body will process most of it while he's unconscious. He won’t even have to go through the detox process, perhaps other than a few hallucinations.” All this was directed to Dean. “And you didn’t need to resort to violence. I wouldn’t have arrived here personally if I didn’t have the intention of helping.”

“Okay, then,” Winchester said, releasing him. “Give me your arm.”

“Wait!” Dean yelled. Seriously, was he the only one thinking straight here? That was Sam’s job. “You’re helping Sam. You’re giving us the Colt.” He glared at Crowley. “What’s in it for you?”

“You owe me twice,” was the succinct reply. “In the future.”

“Same song, earlier verse,” Winchester muttered. He grabbed Crowley’s arm, pushing him to kneel near Sam’s head on Dean’s lap, and made a long cut above his wrists. There was a little orange burn and drops of blood fell into Sam’s mouth, lightly held open by Dean, who was trying to think about something other than the softness of those lips and the distant knowledge that Winchester had left a hickey right where Sam’s suicide attempt would have left a scar. 

The second the blood touched his tongue, Sam stirred, a little whimper escaping him. Winchester pushed Crowley off, grabbing Sam’s hand instead. “Sammy?”

There was color returning to his cheeks, the slightest rise and fall of his chest, but no further reaction.

Winchester began lifting Sam’s head from Dean’s lap. “We need to get him to a motel,” he said.

“I know that,” Dean snapped, not willing to jostle Sam by snatching him back the way he wanted to. “Get in the car and drive us there.”

“No!” Winchester denied. “You need to go with Crowley and get the Colt. I’ll take Sam.”

Dean’s anger flared. “If you think,” he spoke hotly. “That I’m leaving Sam in _your_ hands while he’s unconscious and not in any position to defend himself, you’ve got another thing coming. Not when _apparently_ you knew, somehow, that Sam had tried to friggin' kill himself and neglected to tell me that!”

Without warning, Winchester was gripping the front of his jacket, twisting the fabric and tugging him closer, one arm still protectively cradling Sam’s form. “And if _you_ think,” he hissed, eyes aflame with fury. “That _I’m_ leaving Sam with the person who is partly responsible for his suicide attempt, _you’ve_ got another thing coming.”

“Is anyone going to listen to me?” Crowley interrupted.

Having forgotten his presence, neither Dean nor his future self could come up with a response fast enough.

“Good. Now, deals are best made with no timeline entanglements.” He looked pointedly at Dean. “And, since I doubt you’d want to kiss me, what with Sleeping Beauty obviously waiting for you, you’ll have to sign a long list of things that you should probably read over. That’ll take a while, so I suggest you make haste. Bundle up your princess in that lovely white Mustang, future-you can drive him to the motel. While you and I,” he paused with a smarmy smirk. “Are going for a ride in that gas-guzzler of yours.”

It seemed as if the whole world was out to keep Dean away from Sam. With no option left, he helped Winchester into the backseat of the Mustang left behind by the demons, buckling him in as securely as possible. Not that Winchester would have needed the help- Sam was dangerously light and Dean could feel his ribs.

They parted with a growling reminder from Dean to “Take care of him,” and a scoff from Winchester. Then, Dean watched them drive off in his rearview mirror, before sighing and following Crowley’s directions.


	7. Chapter 7

_Dean stood, swaying lightly as he tried to muster up a glare. But all he could manage was the shell shocked expression._ Cas _had let Sam out of the panic room._ Cas _had altered the voice mail Dean had sent._ Cas _._ Castiel _. All these years, his primary theory had been that Sam had managed to muster up enough power to free himself, that he’d been too angry at Dean to heed the message. But Cas…_

_Suddenly, he was overcome with the urge to scream. Or break the angel's limbs._

_He moved forward, hands clenched. Chuck stood fast, but before he could get in between or Bobby could say anything, Dean stopped himself. It just wasn’t worth it. Not really. Dean was as much to blame as Cas. It wasn't as if he could go back and teach his past self a lesson._

_But he couldn’t stay in the same room as his friend. Not now. So, he turned on his heel and stumbled out the door. He didn’t stop walking until he was at the edge of the Camp, where Baby lay in rest, alone and desolate, with her doors and other parts taken off for repurposing. He rested his head against the top of the car, one hand coming up to clutch at the amulet. The only thing he had left of Sam._

_“Why?” He whispered. “Why?” He looked up slowly, at the night sky. With half of the world population gone, engines and factories stopped, air pollution had faded as well. Countless stars made a dome above his head, a sight that used to be visible only in forest clearings or country roads. Those were the kind of places he and Sam would stop for the night and just sit together in silence._

_“WHY?! He screamed suddenly. “Why ME? Why HIM? Why…? He broke out in a sob, alcohol lowering his inhibitions. “Help me,” he pleaded. “Please… Just… I can’t do this anymore. I can’t…”_

_“Dean.”_

_He startled, looking around to see Chuck standing behind him, watching him thoughtfully. Maybe even sadly._

_“Chuck? What's it?” Dean asked, blinking to clear the tears and the fog in his head away._

_Chuck sighed. He shoved his hands in his pockets, came closer, and looked up at the sky. “Did you know, that car of yours was once owned by a guy who used to drive around every weekend distributing Bibles?”_

_Dean shook his head, confused._

_“Yeah. He used to say he was preparing people for Judgement Day.”_

_It wasn’t funny, but the irony of it had Dean huffing in sorrowful amusement. “How’d ya know that?” He asked, glad the semi-pleasant buzz of drunkenness was still present. It made it easier to switch moods._

_Chuck didn’t reply, just kept staring at the sky. “Something went wrong,” he muttered. “I posed a test and somebody made the wrong choice. When it started going to crap, I just… Gave up. Writer’s block, you know, I can’t see any satisfying way to finish this. Because you and Lucifer… Well, I’ve already done that ending.”_

_Dean had no idea what he was talking about. “Uh, Chuck?”_

_Now, the former alcoholic looked at him. There was something different about him, from Dean’s whiskey-impaired point of view. He seemed… Bigger, even though he was several inches shorter. Had he always glowed like that?_

_“But I don’t want to abandon this story just yet,” he went on. “You guys had potential, you were supposed to be different. Maybe… The last time you guys talked…”_

_Chuck reached out with a hand towards Dean’s face. Dean tried to move out of reach, but the car at his back didn’t leave him with much space._

_“One chance, Dean, just one chance to change things how you see fit. You’ve got two days. Make it count.” Chuck smiled. “Give me a reason to hit Backspace.” His hand landed on his forehead, hot and featherweight. Dean’s vision went white._

* * *

“I’ll come back in some time to ask for an extra key,” Dean told the man at the counter. In case he fell asleep, his past self would need to be able to get in.

Sam was still unconscious, though he’d begun to stir, eyelids fluttering with nightmares. Dean only managed to half-carry, half-drag him to the motel room because he was so light. Seriously, how much of his crazy bulk after Dean had come back from Hell had been due to the demon blood? After releasing Lucifer, according to Sam, something had wiped out all traces of the foreign blood from his body and negated the trouble of withdrawal. But it had also left him visibly weakened. In his time, Sam’s body was fit, strong, if more lean than bulky. Was that due to Lucifer, or had Sam kept himself in shape before saying ‘ _yes_ ’?

Whatever the case, he painstakingly arranged Sam on the bed, salted the door, warded the room with sigils and hex bags he’d learned over the years.

It was with only a split second of hesitation that he was sliding into the same bed as Sam, half-sitting up, half-lying down, turned towards him. But he knew it was the right decision, when Sam whimpered and Dean’s hand stroking through his hair calmed him down.

It also made his eyes flicker open slowly and Dean lost his breath for a moment when Sam gazed up at him through lowered lashes, scared and lost and trusting.

“Dean,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “It hurts.”

Dean swallowed. “I know. I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry. You’re detoxing.”

The fear turned to terror. “No,” he cried, voice cracking, barely able to speak. “No, I didn’t drink. I’m sorry. I was just… You were going to get hurt. Please, don’t get mad at me. Not you too. I didn’t mean to...”

“I know, I know, I’m not angry,” Dean tried to soothe, his own voice shaking. “I promise, Sammy, I’m not angry, I can’t be. You saved our lives.”

Sam’s gaze moved to somewhere behind Dean. He flinched. “Does he hate me?”

There was nobody else in the room, but Dean remembered what Crowley had said about hallucinations and he knew instantly who Sam was seeing. “Not even a little,” he answered firmly, making a mental note to make sure his past self knew better than to upset Sam over this.

Sam began to shake in his arms. “Not the panic room,” he begged. “Please. Please, not the panic room.”

“Of course, not,” Dean promised. “Look, see, we’re in a motel and we’re going to stay here. It’ll take you a couple hours, then you’ll be good as new. Just you and me.” He smoothed his hand over his hair again, watching Sam lean into the touch with a neediness that pushed all the wrong buttons. “I should never have locked you in there alone.”

Sam shuddered. “I killed Lilith,” he reminded in a whisper.

“You didn’t know,” Dean argued softly. “And I broke in Hell first.”

“You didn’t know, either,” Sam said, touching Dean’s cheek with a trembling hand. It was something he’d always done as a kid, trying to comfort him through touch when he didn’t know how to fix his big brother's sadness.

Dean wondered whether this was muscle memory or deliberate.

“You were only in Hell, because of me,” Sam mumbled. He paused for a second. Another side glance and another flinch. “I wasn’t worth it,” he said, monotonous like he was repeating someone else’s words, but with complete conviction. “You should have killed me, let me stay dead.” He looked at Dean. “Do you regret it?”

The question was so ridiculous that Dean would have laughed if it weren’t for the lump in his throat. “Who’s telling you all this, Sammy?” He asked.

“Dean is,” he answered, guileless and confused. “Present Dean. And Dad. And Bobby.”

“Well, you tell them to shut up,” Dean growls. “They’re not real, Sammy. Dad loved you. Even if he was an ass a lot of the time. And same for Bobby. And my past self.”

“Dad said you should kill me,” Sam said, still uncertain.

“Well, he obviously didn’t know me very well then,” he muttered. Then he sighed and thumbed Sam’s lips, pressing a soft kiss to them. “Go to sleep, Sammy,” he whispered. “I’m not leaving.” Sam’s eyes dropped close, curling in closer so his head was a comfortable weight at Dean’s side. Dean pressed another kiss to the top of Sam’s hair. “I don’t regret it,” he murmured. “Never will. And I’ll do it again if I have to.”

Sam’s breath was warm across his neck, even though his body trembled like he was cold, despite the covers Dean had pulled over them both.

Dean drifted between sleep and wakefulness, unwilling to miss a moment of watching Sam, but lulled into drowsiness by the hazy, dreamlike aura created by the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside. Every time Sam shivered, whimpered, even begged in quiet whispers for forgiveness, Dean would jerk back to consciousness, murmuring promises and platitudes into his ear.

A couple times, Sam would be half-awake, watching him with an expression of confusion, like he couldn’t figure out why Dean was there, and it would break Dean’s heart a little, except the confusion was always tempered by the loving, child-like smile Sam wore, like it didn’t matter _why_ Dean was there, just that he _was_. And Dean would find himself helpless to do anything but kiss him, to taste that smile and maybe commit it to memory.

They might never find out who or what sent him here to 2009, but Dean would always owe his life to them. Literally. He knew himself well enough to know how close he’d been to his breaking point, to giving up and eating a bullet. But this… This miraculous opportunity to not just see Sam, but also to love him in the way he wanted to… It would never be enough, but it was more than what he'd ever thought he'd get. If he hadn’t changed the future like he was supposed to, this was what would give him the strength to keep fighting, even if for just a little while more.

The peacefulness was broken when, hours later, Sam finally sleeping fitfully, there was the sound of a key being turned. The door opened slow and even though Dean’s first reaction was to grab his gun, he knew who it was.

Sure enough, his past self was there. He didn’t take more than a step further, just stood there. His eyes tracked over the two of them, curled up against each other, lingered on Sam, then stared him down.

Dean stared back, waiting for the accusations sure to be hurled in furious whispers.

But his past self slumped ever so slightly, like all the fight had just left him. “Stay with him,” he whispered. “I’ll sleep in the car.”

He was gone before Dean could tell him to take the extra bed.

Dean let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He looked down at Sam, curled up and humming softly in his sleep. That meant good dreams. Finally.

He looked at his watch. There were forty minutes left till 5 AM, till his time here was up.

He looked back at his brother. His heart clenched painfully at the thought of leaving the bed. But… But there was a conversation that absolutely needed to happen.

Gently, reluctantly, he extracted himself from Sam’s grip. Sam stirred, hand flopping about mindlessly, then stilled when Dean pressed a light kiss to his sweaty hairline. “I’ll be back to say goodbye, Sammy,” he whispered.

Then, he stepped out of the motel room.

His past self was in the parking lot, sitting on the hood with beer in his hand. He cast a confused glance at Dean. “Did Sam wake up?”

“No,” Dean said. “The detox was mild, but it tired him out. He had hallucinations, but he was lucid and there was nothing flinging his body around the room. He’ll probably wake up soon enough.”

His past self nodded. “Good. He needs rest. He felt too thin.”

Dean only hummed. He didn’t join his past self on the hood- the guy’s tolerance was low anyway- but he grabbed a beer for himself.

His past self broke the silence. “So, I guess Cas never did find God, huh?” He glanced pointedly at Dean’s chest.

Dean nodded, reaching up to finger the amulet. “Yeah, he gave it back to me a month after Sam…” He trailed off.

His past self tilted his head. There was a hard edge to his voice when he spoke again. “You know, Cas told me that your memories will start to merge with my mind.”

Dean stilled.

“And twice now, I’ve dreamt about Sam decked out in a white suit.” He waited for a few seconds. “Sam’s not dead, is he?”

Dean closed his eyes, knowing he couldn’t lie, shook his head slowly.

“Is he…?” His voice cracked. “He said _yes_?”

Dean nodded.

“Why?” It was a demand and a plea rolled into one.

Dean didn’t reply. Hands gripped the collar of his jacket, making him open his yes. His past self was standing in front of him, eyes wide in desperation, lips pressed tightly.

“Why?” He repeated, shaking him threateningly. “Why would he do that?”

Dean forced his past self's fingers to unclench, taking a step back. “Cas talked to me too. He told me I couldn’t tell you any details.”

And he knew he shouldn’t. But the pain etched into the face he saw in the mirror was familiar, the only kinship he felt with the man he used to be.

“Sam had a plan,” Dean said, remembering the video message he’d received, by magic, courtesy of the Archangel Gabriel, hours before finding out about Detroit. “A crazy, reckless, galactically stupid plan. The kind of plan that, if anyone _could_ pull off, it was Sam.”

His past self swallowed. “What went wrong then?”

“If you wanna believe Lucifer’s words, it’s our fault.” Dean met his gaze squarely.

“And you do? You believe him?”

Dean smiled bitterly. “He’s the Prince of Lies. He only tells the truth when it’ll hurt more.”

“What was the plan?” His past self asked in a hushed whisper.

Dean hesitated. “I don’t think I can tell you that.”

“If I don’t know it, then I can’t-”

“Dean!” The opening of the motel room revealed Sam jogging the short distance to them. “I thought you left,” he panted.

Dean smiled, feeling the edges of his lips trembling. “Wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

Sam, with his hair mussed from sleep and chest heaving slightly, like he’d panicked at Dean’s absence, looked hesitantly at his past self.

His past self, to his credit, offered Sam a lazy smile, expertly covering up the frantic desperation from half a minute ago. Sam, distracted with the prospect of farewell, didn’t notice the grief in his eyes as he normally would have.

“Come here,” Dean muttered, gripping Sam close.

Just like the morning two days ago, Sam fell into him easily, head dropping onto his shoulder and arms clutching tightly at his waist. Dean turned his head into Sam’s neck, breathing him in. He couldn’t feel his past self watching them, knew he was looking away to give them their space, and Dean was grateful.

“Remember what I told you,” he whispered, feeling Sam shiver. “He’s an idiot, but he’s all yours. Always has been.”

Sam didn’t reply to that. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look him in the eye, and surprised Dean by kissing him. Dean didn’t waste a second, returning the kiss with fervor. He pulled Sam impossibly closer, like he could carry the imprint of him back into his future.

“Stay,” Sam whispered over his lips.

Dean wondered whose tears were responsible for the salt on his tongue. “I wish I could. But you’ve got him.”

He kissed Sam once more, and once more, reluctant to stop. Then, he lightly shoved him away. Sam hadn’t been expecting it and he stumbled back. Dean watched as his past self caught Sam easily, pulling him to himself to keep him steady.

Dean took a deep breath. There was a burning sensation on his chest. White light began to spread all around him. Instinct made him want to close his eyes, but he stubbornly kept them open as long as he could, watching Sam turn his tear-streaked face away, watched him hide in his brother’s embrace.

Dean couldn’t hold back his sob at the sight and the last thing he was aware of before the light got too bright was his past self mouthing the words, “I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: kassyscarlett


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